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SEYMOUR    DURST 


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"When  you  leave,  please  leave  this  book 

Because  it  has  been  said 
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Except  a  loaned  book." 


Avery  Architectural  and  Fine  Arts  Library 
Gift  of  Seymour  B.  Durst  Old  York  Library 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2013 


http://archive.org/details/alonghudsonwithwOObruc 


ALONG 
THE  HUDSON 

WITH 
WASHINGTON 

IRVING 


By  WALLACE  BRUCE 


PRESS  OF  THE  A.  V.  HAIGHT  COMPANY 
POUGUKEEPSIE,  N.  Y. 


Copyright  1913 
by  Wallace  Bruce 


A  World-wide  Welcome 


Hail  stately  ship  of  worthy  name! 

Where  cherished  memories  fondly  brood, 
Proclaiming  wide  our   Hudson's  fame; 

Ay  more;  a  world-wide  Brotherhood. 
With  hearty  cheer  we  welcome  thee, 

Washington   Irving' s  flag  unfurled. 
Whose  genius  rules  from  sea  to  sea 

Whose  love  enriches  all  the  world. 

Ring  happy  bells!  Manhattan  greet 

Our  "Irving"  at  thy  portal  now; 
No  other  name  so  fair  and  meet. 

Your  storied  record  to  endow. 
Ring  joyous  bells  along  the  way! 

Swing  wide  and  far  a  welcome  free! 
The  glorious    Hudson  wakes  today 

With  grateful  music  all  for  thee. 

Hail!  "Irving"   Hail!  no  name  but  thine 

Could  blend  and  bind  such  memories  true; 
Through  him  long  centuries  entwine 

The  Highlands  bold  and  Catskillstblue. 
From  Sunnyside  to  mountain  stream 

Where  "Laughing  Water"  gently  plays 
Let  bells  salute  Van  Winkle's  dream 

And  crown  the  land  with  laurel  bays. 


CONTENTS 

Along  the  Hudson 5 

Irving's  First  Voyage  by  Sloop  in  1800  .  9 

His  Account  of  Hendrick  Hudson's  Dis- 
covery          13 

Peter  Stuyvesant's  Journey  .        ...  29 

Patroon  Van  Rensellear's  Trip  from  New 

York  to  Albany 37 

Anthony  Van  Corlear  Diplomatic  Mission  99 

Oloffe  Van  Kortland's  Dream       ...  42 

Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow        ....  44 

Rip  Van  Winkle 78 

Sunnyside— The    Home   of  Many  Mem- 
ories          109 

The  Dreamland  of  Pocantico  and  Sleepy 

Hollow 114 

Washington  Irving  at  Home  and  Abroad  117 


Along  the  Hudson 
With  Washington  Irving 


Through  a  Realm  of  Beauty,  Romance 
and  History  with  our  sweetest 
writer  and  noblest  voyager 


For  many  years  it  has  been  the  delight  of 
our  Hudson  River  dwellers  and  of  all  world- 
wide readers  in  every  state  and  in  many  lands, 
to  make  delightful  excursions  of  fancy  "Along 
the  Hudson  with  Washington  Irving."  It 
was,  therefore,  a  beautiful  thought  of  the 
Hudson  River  Day  Line  to  convert  this  fancy 
into  fact  and  to  make  our  journeys  "Along 
the  Hudson  with  Washington  Irving,"a  de- 
lightful reality  by  the  launching  of  a  noble 
steamer  bearing  our  illustrious  writer's  name, 
so  that  we  all  become  today  real  voyagers  with 
him,  and  as  it  were,  personally  conducted 
among  the  mountains,  valleys  and  streams, 
illuminated  and  glorified  by  his  sunny  genius 
and  eventful  life. 

5 


It  was  also  a  splendid  idea  of  the  Hudson 
River  Day  Line  management  to  construct  and 
name  their  three  superb  steamers  in  natural 
and  historic  sequence  as  related  to  the  river, 
to  wit: 

"Hendrick  Hudson" — Our  Discoverer. 

"Robert    Fulton" — Our    Inventor. 

"Washington  Irving" — Our  Portrayer  and 
Voyager. 

From  Washington  Irving's  much  loved 
Manhattan  to  the  historic  Highlands  and  the 
romantic  Cat  skills,  the  very  breezes  are  vo- 
cal with  his  utterances,  and  we  esteem  it  a 
great  privilege  by  the  mere  crossing  of  a  poetic 
"gang-plank  of  memory"  to  pass  at  once  from 
Dreamland  to  Reality  and  thereby  spend  a 
delightful  day  in  his  companionship  and  listen 
to  his  cheery  words  which  still  flow  sweetly 
from  his  own  lips  as  he  recounts  to  us  the  ro- 
mance and  story  of  our  noble  River. 

"I  thank  God,"  exclaims  Washington  Irving 
"that  I  was  born  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson, 
for  I  fancy  I  can  trace  much  that  is  good  and 
pleasant  in  my  heterogeneous  compound  to  my 
early  companionship  with  this  glorious  river. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  a  short  walk  from 
his  Birthplace,  119  William  St.,  would  take 
the  active  lad  in  three  or  four  minutes  through 
the  old    Trinity    churchyard    or   across    open 


fields  from  his  very  doorstep  to  the  bank  of 
the  river;  so  that  all  Manhattan  was  in  fact 
his  dooryard  and  the  entire  valley  of  the 
Hudson  his  dream  land.  It  may  now  also 
be  fittingly  recalled  that  Washington  Irving 
seemed  especially  foreordained  by  ancestry, 
home  and  association  for  the  noble  mission 
that  awaited  him.  On  his  eventful  birthday 
April  5,  1783,  his  patriotic  mother  said  to  his 
father  "General  Washington's  great  work  is 
now  completed  and  we  will  call  our  little  boy 
Washington  Irving."  The  worthy  woman  who 
had  distributed  food  to  the  starving  soldiers 
of  the  American  Revolution  cruelly  confined 
in  the  loathsome  British  Prison  ships  of  New 
York  divined  the  right  name  for  her  little  boy 
in  the  cradle;  this  happy  christening  led  to 
an  early  and  memorable  meeting  of  the  dis- 
tinguished General  and  his  little  namesake, 
for  Washington  Irving  now  tells  us  how 

"A  young  Scotch  maid  servant  of  the  fam- 
ily, struck  with  the  enthusiasm  which  every- 
where greeted  General  Washington's  arrival 
in  New  York,  determined  to  present  the  child 
to  his  distinguished  namesake.  Accordingly 
she  followed  him  one  morning  and  leading  by 
the  hand  the  lad  who  had  scarce  outgrown  his 
virgin  trousers,  said  "Please,  your  honor, 
here's  a  bairn  was  named  after  you."     In  the 


estimation  of  Lizzie,  for  so  she  was  called, 
few  claims  of  kindred  could  be  stronger  than 
this.  Washington  did  not  disdain  the  delicate 
affinity,  and  placing  his  hand  on  the  head  of 
her  little  charge,  gave  him  his  blessing." 

The  distinguished  hero  of  Yorktown  and 
the  first  President  of  our  Republic  little 
dreamed  that  the  good  Scotch  nurse  led  by  the 
hand  that  morning  one  destined  to  laurel  his 
own  history,  to  depict  the  great  deeds  of  the 
Revolutionary  struggle  and  to  transmit,  as 
it  were,  by  personal  touch,  a  work  which  in 
reverent  love  and  sympathetic  narration  would 
stand  alone,  not  only  in  American  literature, 
but  also  in  the  annals  of  the  world's  history  of 
freedom. 

Were  I  an  artist  I  know  of  no  finer  group  in 
our  entire  American  story  than  this  of  the 
great  General  and  the  bright  eyed  lad  at- 
tended by  his  nurse  in  her  Tartan  plaid  stand- 
ing at  the  doorway  of  the  old  Trinity  Church 
appropriately  framed  amid  the  old-time  pic- 
turesque buildings  of  the  lower  Broadway  of 
our  Revolutionary  days.  That  greeting  and 
blessing  was  a  "laying  on  of  hands"  never  to 
be  forgotten  and  a  noble  dedication  for  the 
great  work  the  lad  was  to  accomplish. 


Irving's  First  Voyage 


As  the  steamer  lines  are  cast  off  at  Des 

brosses  Street  pier,  Washington  Irving 

naturally  reverts  to  the  old-time 

days,   and  his    great  voyage 

Along  the   Hudson 

by  sloop  in  1800 


My  first  voyage  up  the  Hudson  was  made 
in  early  boyhood,  before  steamboats  and  rail- 
roads had  annihilated  time  and  space.  A 
voyage  to  Albany  then  was  equal  to  a  voyage 
to  Europe  at  present,  and  took  almost  as  much 
time.  V,e  enjoyed  the  beauties  of  the  river 
in  those  days;  the  features  of  nature  were  no 
all  iumbled  together,  nor  the  towns  and  vil- 
lages huddled  one  into  the  other  by  railroad 
speed   as   they   are   now. 

I  was  to  make  the  voyage  under  the  pro- 
tection of  a  relative  of  mature  age;  one  ex- 
perienced in  the  river.  His  first  care  was  to 
look  out  for  a  favorite  sloop  and  captain,  in 
which  there  was  great  choice. 


The  constant  voyaging  in  the  river  craft  by 
the  best  families  of  New  York  and  Albany  made 
the  merits  of  captains  and  sloops  matters  of 
notoriety  and  discussion  in  both  cities.  The 
captains  were  mediums  of  communication  be- 
tween separated  friends  and  families.  On  the 
arrival  of  one  of  them  at  either  place  he  had 
messages  to  deliver  and  commissions  to  exe- 
cute which  took  him  from  house  to  house. 
Some  of  the  ladies  of  the  family  had,  perad- 
venture,  made  a  voyage  on  board  of  his  sloop, 
and  experienced  from  him  that  protecting  care 
which  is  always  remembered  with  gratitude 
by  female  passengers.  In  this  way  the  cap- 
tains of  Albany  sloops  were  personages  of 
more  note  in  the  community  than  captains  of 
European  packets  or  steamships  at  the  present 
day.  A  sloop  was  at  length  chosen;  but  she 
had  to  complete  her  freight  and  secure  a  suf- 
ficient number  of  passengers.  Days  were  con- 
sumed in  "drumming  up"  a  cargo.  This  was 
a  tormenting  delay  to  me  who  was  about  to 
make  my  first  voyage,  and  who,  boy-like  had 
packed  up  my  trunk  on  the  first  mention  of  the 
expedition.  How  often  that  trunk  had  to  be 
unpacked    and    repacked    before    we    sailed 

What  a  time  of  intense  delight  was  that 
first  sail  through  the  Highlands!  I  sat  on  the 
deck  as  we  slowly  tided  along  at  the  foot  of 

10 


those  stern  mountains,  and  gazed  with  wonder 
and  admiration  at  cliffs  impending  far  above 
me,  crowned  with  forests,  with  eagles  sailing 
and  screaming  around  them;  or  listened  to 
the  unseen  stream  dashing  down  precipices 
or  beheld  rock,  and  tree,  and  cloud,  and  sky 
reflected  in  the  glassy  stream  of  the  river.  And 
then  how  solemn  and  thrilling  the  scene  as  we 
anchored  at  night  at  the  foot  of  these  moun- 
tains, clothed  with  overhanging  forests;  and 
everything  grew  dark  and  mysterious;  and 
I  heard  the  plaintive  note  of  the  whippoor- 
will  from  the  mountain-side,  or  was  startled 
now  and  then  by  the  sudden  leap  and  heavy 
splash  of  the  sturgeon. 

But  of  all  the  scenery  of  the  Hudson,  the 
Kaatskill  Mountains  had  the  most  witching 
effect  on  my  boyish  imagination.  Never 
shall  I  forget  the  effect  upon  me  of  the  first 
view  of  them  predominating  over  a  wide  ex- 
tent of  country,  part  wild,  woody,  and  rugged 
part  softened  away  into  all  the  graces  of  cul- 
tivation. As  we  slowly  floated  along,  I  lay 
on  the  deck  and  watched  them  through  a  long 
summer's  day;  undergoing  a  thousand  muta- 
tions under  the  magical  effects  of  atmosphere 
sometimes  seeming  to  approach;  at  other 
times  to  recede;  now  almost  melting  into  hazy 
distance,  now  burnished  by  the  setting  sun, 

11 


until,  in  the  evening,  they  printed  themselves 
against  the  glowing  sky  in  the  deep  purple  of 
an  Italian  landscape. 

"I  am  here  recalling  my  first  voyaging  amid 
Hudson  scenery  and  can  say  that  it  has  been 
my  lot,  in  the  course  of  a  somewhat  wander- 
ing life,  to  behold  some  of  the  rivers  of  the  old 
world,  most  renowned  in  history  and  song, 
yet  none  have  been  able  to  efface  or  dim  the 
pictures  of  my  native  stream  thus  early  stamp- 
ed upon  my  memory.  My  heart  would  ever 
revert  to  them  with  a  filial  feeling,  and  a  re- 
currence of  the  joyous  associations  of  boy- 
hood; and  such  recollections  are,  in  fact,  the 
true  fountains  of  youth  which  keep  the  heart 
from  growing  old. 

To  me  the  Hudson  is  full  of  storied  associa- 
tions, connected  as  it  is  with  some  of  the  hap- 
piest portions  of  my  life.  Each  striking  fea- 
ture brings  to  mind  some  early  adventure  or 
enjoyment;  some  favorite  companion  who 
shared  it  with  me;  some  fair  object,  perchance, 
of  youthful  admiration,  who,  like  a  star, 
may  have  beamed  her  allotted  time  and  passed 
away. 


12 


Washington  Irving 


Now   proceeds   to   give  us  his  account  of 
"Hendrick  Hudson's  Discovery  of  Our 
River."    After  refreshing  his  mem- 
ory with  a  hasty  glance  at  the 
early  pages  of  Old  Knick- 
erbocker's History  of 
New  York 


In  the  ever-memorable  year  of  our  Lord, 
1609,  on  a  Saturday  morning,  the  five:and- 
twentieth  day  of  March,  old  style,  did  that 
"worthy  and  irrecoverable  discoverer  (as  he 
has  justly  been  called),  Master  Hudson,"  set 
sail  from  Holland  in  a  stout  vessel  called  the 
"Half -Moon,"  being  employed  by  the  Dutch 
East  India  Company,  to  seek  a  northwest 
passage  to  China. 

Henry  (or,  as  the  Dutch  historians  call  him, 
Hendrick)  Hudson  was  a  seafaring  man  of 
renown,  who  had  learned  to   smoke   tobacco 

13 


under  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  and  is  said  to  have 
been  the  first  to  introduce  it  into  Holland, 
which  gained  him  much  popularity  in  that 
country,  and  caused  him  to  find  great  favor 
in  the  eyes  of  their  High  Mightinesses,  the 
Lords  States  General,  and  also  of  the  honorable 
West  India  Company.  He  was  a  short,  square, 
brawny  old  gentleman,  with  a  double  chin,  a 
mastiff  mouth,  and  a  broad  copper  nose, 
which  was  supposed  in  those  days  to  have  ac- 
quired its  fiery  hue  from  the  constant  neigh- 
borhood of  his  tobacco  pipe. 

He  wore  a  true  Andrea  Ferrara,  tucked  in  a 
leathern  belt,  and  a  commodore's  cocked  hat 
on  one  side  of  his  head.  He  was  remarkable 
for  always  jerking  up  his  breeches  when  he 
gave  out  his  orders,  and  his  voice  sounded  not 
unlike  the  brattling  of  a  tin  trumpet, — owing 
to  the  number  of  hard  northwesters  which  he 
had  swallowed  in  the  course  of  his  seafaring. 

Such  was  Hendrick  Hudson,  of  whom  we 
have  heard  so  much,  and  know  so  little;  and 
I  have  been  thus  particular  in  his  description 
for  the  benefit  of  modern  painters  and  statu- 
aries, that  they  may  represent  him  as  he  was, 
— and  not,  according  to  their  common  custom 
with  modern  heroes,  make  him  look  like  Ceas- 
ar,  or  Marcus  Aurelius,  or  the  Apollo  of  Bel- 
videre. 

M 


Robert  Juet  was  an  old  comrade  and  early 
schoolmate  of  the  great  Hudson,  with  whom 
he  had  often  played  truant  and  sailed  chip 
boats  in  a  neighboring  pond,  when  they  were 
little  boys:  from  whence  it  is  said  that  the 
commodore  first  derived  his  bias  towards  a 
seafaring  life. 

To  this  universal  genius  are  we  indebted  for 
many  particulars  concerning  this  voyage;  of 
which  he  wrote  a  history,  at  the  request  of  the 
commodore,  who  had  an  unconquerable  aver- 
sion to  writing  himself,  from  having  received 
so  many  floggings  about  it  when  at  school. 
To  supply  the  deficiencies  of  master  Juet's 
journal,  which  is  written  with  true  log-book 
brevity,  I  have  availed  myself  of  divers  family 
traditions,  handed  down  from  my  great-great- 
grandfather, who  accompanied  the  expedition 
in  the  capacity  of  cabin-boy.  From  all  that 
I  can  learn,  few  incidents  worthy  of  remark 
happened  in  the  voyage. 

Suffice  it  to  say,  the  voyage  was  prosperous 
and  tranquil;  the  crew,  being  a  patient  people, 
much  given  to  slumber  and  vacuity,  and  but 
little  troubled  with  the  disease  of  thinking, — 
a  malady  of  the  mind,  which  is  the  sure  breed- 
er of  discontent,  every  man  was  allowed  to 
sleep  quietly  at  his  post  unless  the  wind  blew. 
True,  it  is,  some  slight  disaffection  was  shown 

15 


on  two  or  three  occasions,  at  certain  unreas- 
onable conduct  of  Commodore  Hudson.  Thus, 
for  instance,  he  forbore  to  shorten  sail  when 
the  wind  was  light,  and  the  weather  serene, 
which  was  considered  among  the  most  expe- 
rienced Dutch  seamen  as  certain  weather- 
breeders,  or  prognostics  that  the  weather 
would  change  for  the  worse.  He  likewise 
prohibited  the  seamen  from  wearing  more  than 
five  jackets  and  six  pair  of  breeches,  under  pre- 
tense of  rendering  them  more  alert;  and  no 
man  was  permitted  to  go  aloft  and  hand  in  sails 
with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth,  as  is  the  invariable 
Dutch  custom  at  the  present  day.  All  these 
grievances,  though  they  might  ruffle  for  a 
moment  the  constitutional  tranquillity  of  the 
honest  Dutch  tars,  made  but  transient  im- 
pression;— they  ate  hugely  and  slept  immeas- 
urably; and  being  under  the  especial  guidance 
of  Providence,  the  ship  was  safely  conducted 
to  the  coast  of  America;  where,  after  sundry 
unimportant  touchings  and  standings  off  and 
on,  she  at  length,  on  the  fourth  day  of  Septem- 
ber, entered  that  majestic  bay  which  at  this 
day  expands  its  ample  bosom  before  the  city 
of  New  York,  and  which  had  never  before 
been  visited  by  any  European. 

True  it  is — and  I  am  not  ignorant  of  the 
fact — that   in   a   certain   apocryphal   book   of 

16 


voyages,  compiled  by  one  Hakluyt,  is  to  be 
found  a  letter  written  to  Francis  the  First, 
by  one  Giovanna,  or  John  Verazzani,  on 
which  some  writers  are  inclined  to  found  a  be- 
lief that  this  delightful  bay  had  been  visited 
nearly  a  century  previous  to  the  voyage  of  the 
enterprising  Hudson.  Now  this  (albeit  it  has 
met  with  the  countenance  of  certain  very  ju- 
dicious and  learned  men)  I  hold  in  utter  dis- 
belief, and  that  for  various  good  and  substan- 
tial reasons*.  First,  Because  on  strict  exami- 
nation it  will  be  found  that  the  description 
given  by  this  Verazzani  applies  about  as  well 
to  the  bay  of  New  York  as  it  does  to  my  night- 
cap. Secondly,  because  that  this  John  Ver- 
azzani, for  whom  I  already  begin  to  feel  a 
most  bitter  enmity,  is  a  native  of  Florence; 
and  everybody  knows  the  crafty  wiles  of  these 
losel  Florentines,  by  which  they  filched  away 
the  laurels  from  the  brows  of  the  immortal 
Colon  (vulgarly  called  Columbus),  and  be- 
stowed them  on  their  officious  townsman, 
Amerigo  Vespucci;  and  I  make  no  doubt  they 
are  equally  ready  to  rob  the  illustrious  Hud- 
son of  the  credit  of  discovering  this  beautiful 
island,  adorned  by  the  city  of  New  York, 
and  placing  it  beside  their  usurped  discovery 
of  South  America.  And  thirdly,  I  award 
my  decision    in    favor    of    the  pretensions  of 

17 


Hendrick  Hudson,  inasmuch  as  his  expedition 
sailed  from  Holland,  being  truly  and  absolute- 
ly a  Dutch  enterprise; — and  though  all  the 
proofs  in  the  world  were  introduced  on  the 
other  side,  I  would  set  them  at  naught,  as 
undeserving  my  attention.  If  these  three 
reasons  be  not  sufficient  to  satisfy  every  burgher 
of  this  ancient  city,  all  I  can  say  is,  they  are 
degenerate  descendants  from  their  venerable 
Dutch  ancestors,  and  totally  unworthy  the 
trouble  of  convincing.  Thus,  therefore,  the 
title  of  Hendrick  Hudson  to  his  renowned  dis- 
covery is  fully  vindicated. 

It  has  been  traditionary  in  our  family,  that 
when  the  great  navigator  was  first  blessed 
with  a  view  of  this  enchanting  island,  he  was 
observed,  for  the  first  and  only  time  in  his 
life,  to  exhibit  strong  symptons  of  astonish- 
ment and  admiration.  He  is  said  to  have  turn- 
ed to  Master  Juet,  and  uttered  these  remark- 
able words,  while  he  pointed  towards  this  par- 
adise of  the  new  world, — "See!  there!" — and, 
thereupon,  as  was  always  his  way  when  he  was 
uncommonly  pleased,  he  did  puff  out  such 
clouds  of  dense  tobacco  smoke,  that  in  one 
minute  the  vessel  was  out  of  sight  of  land, 
and  master  Juet  was  fain  to  wait  until  the 
winds  dispersed  this  impenetrable  fog. 

It    was   indeed, — as    my    great-grandfather 

18 


used  to  say, — though  in  truth  I  never  heard 
him,  for  he  died,  as  might  be  expected  be- 
fore I  was  born — "It  was  indeed  a  spot  on 
which  the  eye  might  have  revelled  forever,  in 
ever  new  and  never-ending  beauties."  The 
island  of  Mannahata  spread  wide  before  them, 
like  some  sweet  vision  of  fancy,  or  some  fair 
creation  of  industrious  magic.  Its  hills  of 
smiling  green  swelled  gently  one  above  an- 
other, crowned  with  lofty  trees  of  luxuriant 
growth;  some  pointing  their  tapering  foliage 
towards  the  clouds,  which  were  gloriously 
transparent;  and  others  loaded  with  verdant 
burden  of  clambering  vines,  bowing  their 
branches  to  the  earth,  that  was  covered  with 
flowers.  On  the  gentle  declivities  of  the  hills 
were  scattered  in  gay  profusion,  the  dogwood, 
the  sumach,  and  the  wild  brier,  whose  scarlet 
berries  and  white  blossoms  glowed  brightly 
among  the  deep  green  of  the  surrounding  fol- 
iage; and  here  and  there  a  curling  column 
of  smoke,  rising  from  the  little  glens  that  op- 
ened along  the  shore,  seemed  to  promise  the 
weary  voyagers  a  welcome  at  the  hands  of 
their  fellow-creatures.  As  they  stood  gazing 
with  entranced  attention  on  the  scene  before 
them,  a  red  man,  crowned  with  feathers,  is- 
sued from  one  of  these  glens,  and  after  con- 
templating in  wonder  the  gallant  ship,  as  she 

19 


sat  like  a  stately  swan  swimming  on  a  silver 
lake,  sounded  the  war-whoop,  and  bounded 
into  the  woods  like  a  wild  deer,  to  the  utter  as- 
tonishment of  the  phlegmatic  Dutchmen,  who 
had  never  heard  such  a  noise,  or  witnessed 
such  a  caper  in  their  whole  lives. 

Of  the  transactions  of  our  adventurers  with 
the  savages,  and  how  the  latter  smoked  copper 
pipes  and  ate  dried  currants;  how  they 
brought  great  store  of  tobacco  and  oysters; 
how  they  shot  one  of  the  ship's  crew,  and  how 
he  was  buried,  I  shall  say  nothing;  being  that 
I  consider  them  unimportant  to  my  history. 
After  tarrying  a  few  days  in  the  bay,  in  order 
to  refresh  themselves  after  their  seafaring, 
our  voyagers  weighed  anchor,  to  explore  a 
mighty  river  which  emptied  into  the  bay. 
This  river,  it  is  said,  was  known  among  the 
savages  by  the  name  of  the  Shatemuch, 
though  we  are  assured  in  an  excellent  little 
history  published  in  1674,  by  John  Josselyn, 
Gent,  that  it  was  called  the  Mohegan,  and 
master  Richard  Bloome,  who  wrote  some  time 
afterwards,  asserts  the  same, — so  that  I  very 
much  incline  in  favor  of  the  opinion  of  these 
two  honest  gentlemen.  This  river  is  likewise 
laid  down  in  Ogilby's  map  as  Manhattan 
— Noordt  Montaigne  and  Mauritius  river. 
Be    this    as    it    may,    up   this    river    did    the 

20 


adventurous  Hendrick  proceed,  little  doubting 
but  it  would  turn  out  to  be  the  much  looked- 
for  passage  to  China! 

The  journal  goes  on  to  make  mention  of 
divers  interviews  between  the  crew  and  the 
natives  in  the  voyage  up  the  river;  but  as 
they  would  be  impertinent  to  my  history,  I 
shall  pass  them  over  in  silence,  except  the 
following  dry  joke,  played  off  by  the  old 
commodore  and  his  school-fellow,  Robert  Juet, 
which  does  such  vast  credit  to  their  experi- 
mental philosophy,  that  I  cannot  refrain  from 
inserting  it.  "Our  master  and  his  mate  de- 
termined to  try  some  of  the  chiefe  men  of  the 
country,  whether  they  had  any  treacherie 
in  them.  So  they  tooke  them  downe  into 
the  cabin,  and  gave  them  so  much  wine  and 
aqua  vitae,  that  they  were  all  merrie;  and 
one  of  them  had  his  wife  with  him  which  sate 
so  modestly,  as  any  of  our  countrey  women 
would  do  in  a  strange  place.  In  the  end,  one 
of  them  was  drunke,  which  had  been  aborde 
of  our  ship  all  the  time  that  he  had  been  there, 
and  that  was  strange  to  them,  for  they  could 
not  tell  how  to  take  it." 

He  then  proceeded  on  his  voyage  with  great 
self-complacency.  After  sailing,  however, 
above  an  hundred  miles  up  the  river,  he  found 
the  watery  world  around  him  began  to  grow 

21 


more  shallow  and  confined,  the  current  more 
rapid,  and  perfectly  fresh, — phenomena  not 
uncommon  in  the  ascent  of  rivers,  but  which 
puzzled  the  honest  Dutchmen  prodigiously. 
A  consultation  was  therefore  called,  and  hav- 
ing deliberated  full  six  hours,  they  were  brought 
to  a  determination  by  the  ship's  running 
aground, — whereupon  they  unanimously  con- 
cluded, that  there  was  but  little  chance  of 
getting  to  China  in  this  direction.  A  boat, 
however,  was  despatched  to  explore  higher 
up  the  river,  which,  on  its  return,  confirmed 
the  opinion;  upon  this  the  ship  was  warped 
off  and  put  about,  with  great  difficulty,  be- 
ing, like  most  of  her  sex,  exceedingly  hard  to 
govern;  and  the  adventurous  Hudson,  ac- 
cording to  the  account  of  my  great-great- 
grandfather, returned  down  the  river — with  a 
prodigious  flea  in  his  ear? 

Being  satisfied  that  there  was  little  like- 
lihood of  getting  to  China,  unless,  like  the 
blind  man,  he  returned  from  whence  he  set 
out,  and  took  a  fresh  start,  he  forthwith  re- 
crossed  the  sea  to  Holland,  where  he  was  re- 
ceived with  great  welcome  by  the  honorable 
East  India  Company,  who  were  very  much 
rejoiced  to  see  him  come  back  safe — with  their 
ship;  and  at  a  large  and  respectable  meeting 
of   the   first    merchants  and  burgomasters    of 

22 


Amsterdam,  it  was  unanimously  determined 
that  as  a  munificent  reward  for  the  eminent 
services  he  had  performed,  and  the  important 
discovery  he  had  made,  the  great  river  Mo- 
hegan  shall  be  called  after  his  name — and  it 
continues  to  be  called  Hudson  river  unto  this 
very   day. 

Letters-patent  were  granted  by  govern- 
ment to  an  association  of  merchants,  called 
the  West  India  Company,  for  the  exclusive 
trade  on  Hudson  river,  on  which  they  erected 
a  trading-house,  called  Fort  Aurania,  or 
Orange,  from  whence  did  spring  the  great 
city  of  Albany. 

It  was  some  three  or  four  years  after  the 
return  of  the  immortal  Hendrick,  that  a  crew 
of  honest,  Low-Dutch  colonists  set  sail  from 
the  city  of  Amsterdam  for  the  shores  of  Amer- 
ica. The  "Goede  Vrouw"  made  out  to  accom- 
plish her  voyage  in  a  very  few  months,  and 
came  to  anchor  at  the  mouth  of  the  Hudson 
a  little  to  the  east  of  Gibbet  Island. 

Here,  lifting  up  their  eyes,  they  beheld,  on 
what  is  at  present  called  the  Jersey  shore,  a 
small  Indian  village,  pleasantly  embowered 
in  a  grove  of  spreading  elms,  and  the  natives 
all  collected  on  the  beach,  gazing  in  stupid 
admiration  at  the  "Goede  Vrouw."  A  boat  was 
immediately  dispatched  to  enter  into  a  treaty 

23 


with  them,  and  approaching  the  shore,  hailed 
them  through  a  trumpet,  in  the  most  friendly 
terms;  but  so  horribly  confounded  were  these 
poor  savages  at  the  tremendous  and  uncouth 
sound  of  the  Low-Dutch  language,  that  they 
one  and  all  took  to  their  heels,  and  scampered 
over  the  Bergen  hills;  nor  did  they  stop  until 
they  had  buried  themselves,  head  and  ears, 
in  the  marshes  on  the  other  side,  where  they 
all  miserably  perished  to  a  man; — and  their 
bones,  being  collected  and  decently  covered 
by  the  Tammany  Society  of  that  day,  formed 
that  singular  mound  called  Rattlesnake  Hill, 
which  rises  out  of  the  center  of  the  salt  marshes 
a  little  to  the  east  of  the  Newark  Causeway. 
Animated  by  this  unlooked-for  victory  ,our 
valiant  heroes  sprang  ashore  in  triumph,  took 
possession  of  the  soil  a 5  conquerors,  in  the  name 
of  their  High  Mightinesses  the  Lords  States 
General;  and,  marching  fearlessly  forward,  car- 
ried the  village  of  Communipaw  by  storm, 
notwithstanding  that  it  was  vigorously  de- 
fended by  some  half  score  of  old  squaws  and 
papooses.  On  looking  about  them  they  were 
so  transported  with  the  excellencies  of  the 
place,  that  they  had  very  little  doubt  the 
blessed  St.  Nicholas  had  guided  them  thither, 
as  the  very  spot  whereon  to  settle  their  col- 
ony.    The  softness  of  the  soil  was  wonderfully 

24 


adapted  to  the  driving  of  piles;  the  swamps  and 
marshes  around  them  afforded  ample  oppor- 
tunities for  the  constructing  of  dykes  and 
dams;  the  shallowness  of  the  shore  was  pe- 
culiarly favorable  to  the  building  of  docks; — 
in  a  word,  this  spot  abounded  with  all  the  req- 
uisites for  the  foundation  of  a  great  Dutch 
city.  On  making  a  faithful  report,  therefore, 
to  the  crew  of  the  "Goede  Vrouw,"they  one 
and  all  determined  that  this  was  the  destined 
end  of  their  voyage.  Accordingly  they  de- 
scended from  the  "Goede  Vrouw,"  men,  women, 
and  children,  in  goodly  groups,  as  did  the 
animals  of  yore  from  the  ark,  and  formed  them- 
selves into  a  thriving  settlement,  which  they 
called  by  the  Indian  name  Communipaw. 

As  all  the  world  is  doubtless  acquainted 
with  Communipaw,  it  may  seem  somewhat 
superfluous  to  treat  of  it  in  the  present  work; 
but  my  readers  will  please  to  recollect,  not- 
withstanding it  is  my  chief  desire  to  satisfy 
the  present  age,  yet  I  write  likewise  for  pos- 
terity, and  have  to  consult  the  understanding 
and  curiosity  of  some  half  a  score  of  centuries 
yet  to  come,  by  which  time,  perhaps,  were 
it  not  for  this  invaluable  history,  the  great 
Communipaw,  like  Babylon,  Carthage,  Nine- 
vah  and  other  great  cities,  might  be  perfectly 
extinct, — sunk  and  forgotten  in  its  own  mud, 

25 


— its  inhabitants  turned  into  oysters,  and  even 
its  situation  a  fertile  subject  of  learned  con- 
troversy and  hard-headed  investigation  among 
indefatigable  historians.  Let  me  then  piously 
rescue  from  oblivion  the  humble  relics  of  a 
place,  which  was  the  egg  from  whence  was 
hatched  the  mighty  city  of  New  York! 

Communipaw  is  at  present  but  a  small  vil- 
lage, pleasantly  situated,  among  rural  scenery, 
on  that  beauteous  part  of  the  Jersey  shore 
which  was  known  in  ancient  legends  by  the 
name  of  Pavonia,  and  commands  a  grand 
prospect  of  the  superb  bay  of  New  York.  It 
is  within  but  half  an  hour's  sail  of  the  latter 
place,  provided  you  have  a  fair  wind,  and  may 
be  distinctly  seen  from  the  city.  Nay,  it  is 
a  well-known  fact,  which  I  can  testify  from 
my  own  experience,  that  on  a  clear,  still  sum- 
mer evening,  you  may  hear,  from  the  Battery 
of  New  York,  the  obstreperous  peals  of  broad 
mouthed  laughter  of  the  Dutch  negroes  at 
Communipaw,  who,  like  most  other  negroes 
are  famous  for  their  risible  powers. 

Communipaw,  in  short,  is  one  of  the  numerous 
little  villages  in  the  vicinity  of  this  most  beau- 
tiful of  cities,  which  are  so  many  strongholds 
and  fastnesses,  whither  the  primitive  manners 
of  our  Dutch  forefathers  have  retreated,  and 
where   they   are   cherished   with   devout   and 

26 


scrupulous  strictness.  The  language  likewise 
continues  unadulterated  by  barbarous  inno- 
vations; and  so  critically  correct  is  the  village 
schoolmaster  in  his  dialect,  that  his  reading 
of  a  Low-Dutch  psalm  has  much  the  same 
effect  on  the  nerves  as  the  filing  of  a  hand  saw. 

The  crew  of  the  "Goede  Vrouw"  being  soon 
reinforced  by  fresh  importations  from  Hol- 
land, the  settlement  went  jollity  on,  increas- 
ing in  magnitude  and  prosperity.  The  Indians 
were  much  given  to  long  talks,  and  the  Dutch 
to  long  silence; — in  this  particular,  therefore, 
they  accommodated  each  other  completely. 
The  chiefs  would  make  long  speeches  about  the 
big  bull,  the  Wabash,  and  the  Great  Spirit, 
to  which  the  others  would  listen  very  at- 
tentively, smoke  their  pipes,  and  grunt  yah, 
myhn-her, — whereat  the  poor  savages  were 
wondrously  delighted.  They  instructed  the 
new  settlers  in  the  best  art  of  curing  and  smok- 
ing tobacco,  while  the  latter,  in  return,  made 
them  drunk  with  true  Hollands — and  then 
taught  them  the  art  of  making  bargains. 

As  to  the  honest  burghers  of  Communipaw, 
likewise  men  and  sound  philosophers,  they 
never  look  beyond  their  pipes,  nor  trouble 
their  heads  about  any  affairs  out  of  their  im- 
mediate neighborhood;  so  that  they  live  in  a 
profound   and   enviable   ignorance   of   all   the 

27 


troubles,  anxieties,  and  revolutions  of  this  dis- 
tracted planet.  I  am  even  told  that  many 
among  them  do  verily  believe  that  Holland, 
of  which  they  have  heard  so  much  from  tradi- 
tion, is  situated  somewhere  on  Long  Island, — 
that  Spiking-devil  and  the  Narrows  are  the 
two  ends  of  the  world, — that  the  country 
is  still  under  the  dominion  of  their  High 
Mightinesses, — and  that  the  city  of  New  York 
still  goes  by  the  name  of  Nieuw  Amsterdam. 
They  meet  every  Saturday  afternoon  at  the 
only  tavern  in  the  place,  which  bears  as  a 
sign  a  square-headed  likeness  of  the  Prince 
of  Orange,  where  they  smoke  a  silent  pipe, 
by  way  of  promoting  social  conviviality,  and 
invariably  drink  a  mug  of  cider  to  the  success 
of  Admiral  Van  Tromp,  who  they  imagine  is 
still  sweeping  the  British  channel,  with  a  broom 
at    his    mast-head. 


28 


Peter  Stuyvesant's  Journey 
as  narrated  by  Irving 


Here  and  there  might  be  seen  a  rude  wig- 
wam perched  among  the  cliffs  of  the  moun- 
tains, with  its  curling  column  of  smoke  mount- 
ing in  the  transparent  atmosphere, — but  so 
loftily  situated  that  the  whoopings  of  the  sav- 
age children,  gambolling  on  the  margin  of  the 
dizzy  heights,  fell  almost  as  faintly  on  the  ear 
as  Ihe  notes  of  the  lark  when  lost  in  the  azure 
vault  of  heaven.  Now  and  then,  from  the 
beetling  brown  of  some  precipice,  the  wild 
deer  would  look  timidly  down  upon  the  splen- 
did pageant  as  it  passed  below,  and  then,  toss- 
ing his  antlers  in  the  air,  would  bound  away 
into  the  thickest  of  the  forest. 

Through  such  scenes  did  the  stately  vessel 
of  Peter  Stuyvesant  pass.  Now  did  they 
skirt  the  bases  of  the  rocky  heights  of  Jersey, 
which  spring  up  like  everlasting  walls,  reach- 
ing from  the  waves  unto  the  heavens,  and 
were  fashioned,  if  tradition  may  be  believed, 
in    times    along    past,    by    the    mighty    spirit 

29 


Manetho,  to  protect  his  favorite  abodes  from 
the  unhallowed  eyes  of  mortals.  Now  did 
they  career  it  gayly  across  the  vast  expanse 
of  Tappen  Bay,  whose  wide-extended  shores 
present  a  variety  of  delectable  scenery, — 
here  the  bold  promontory,  crowned  with  em- 
bowering trees,  advancing  into  the  bay, — 
there  the  long  woodland  slope,  sweeping  up 
from  the  shore  in  rich  luxuriance,  and  termi- 
nating in  the  upland  precipice, — while  at  a 
distance  a  long  waving  line  of  rocky  heights 
threw  their  gigantic  shades  across  the  water. 
Now  would  they  pass  where  some  modest 
little  interval,  opening  among  these  stupend- 
ous scenes,  yet  retreating  as  it  were  for  pro- 
tection into  the  embraces  of  the  neighboring 
mountains,  displayed  a  rural  paradise,  fraught 
with  sweet  and  pastoral  beauties, — the  velvet- 
tufted  lawn,  the  bushy  copse,  the  tinkling 
rivulet,  stealing  through  the  fresh  and  vivid 
verdure,  on  whose  banks  was  situated  some 
little  Indian  village,  or,  peradventure,  the 
rude  cabin  of  some  solitary  hunter. 

The  different  periods  of  the  revolving  day 
seemed  each,  with  cunning  magic,  to  diffuse  a 
different  charm  over  the  scene.  Now  would 
the  jovial  sun  break  gloriously  from  the  east 
blazing  from  the  summits  of  the  hills,  and 
sparkling  the  landscape  with  a  thousand  dewy 

30 


gems;  while  along  the  borders  of  the  river  were 
seen  the  heavy  masses  of  mist,  which  like 
midnight  caitiffs  disturbed  at  his  approach, 
made  a  sluggish  retreat,  rolling  in  sullen  re- 
luctance up  the  mountains.  At  such  times 
all  was  brightness,  and  life,  and  gayety, — the 
atmosphere  was  of  an  indescribable  pureness 
and  transparency, — the  birds  broke  forth  in 
wanton  madrigals,  and  the  freshening  breezes 
wafted  the  vessel  merrily  on  her  course.  But 
when  the  sun  set  amid  a  flood  of  glory  in  the 
west,  mantling  the  heavens  and  the  earth  with 
a  thousand  gorgeous  dyes,  then  all  was  calm, 
and  silent,  and  magnificent.  The  late  swell- 
ing sail  hung  lifelessly  against  the  mast; — 
the  seaman,  with  folded  arms,  leaned  against 
the  shrouds,  lost  in  that  involuntary  musing 
which  the  sober  grandeur  of  nature  commands 
in  the  rudest  of  her  children.  The  vast  bosom 
of  the  Hudson  was  like  an  unruffled  mirror, 
reflecting  the  golden  hue  of  the  heavens,  ex- 
cepting that  now  and  then  a  bark  canoe  would 
steal  across  its  surface,  filled  with  painted 
savages,  whose  gay  feathers  glared  brightly  as 
perchance  a  lingering  ray  of  the  setting  sun 
gleamed  upon  them  from  the  western  moun- 
tains. 

But  when  the  hour  of  twilight  spread  its 
majestic  mists  around,  then  did  the  face  of 

31 


nature  assume  a  thousand  fugitive  charms, 
which  to  the  worthy  heart  that  seeks  enjoy- 
ment in  the  glorious  works  of  its  Maker  are 
inexpressibly  captivating.  The  mellow,  dubi- 
ous light  that  prevailed  just  served  to  tinge 
with  illusive  colors  the  softened  features  of 
the  scenery.  The  deceived  but  delighted  eye 
sought  vainly  to  discern  in  the  broad  masses 
of  shade  the  separating  line  between  the  land 
and  water,  or  to  distinguish  the  fading  objects 
that  seemed  sinking  into  choas.  Now  did  the 
busy  fancy  supply  the  feebleness  of  vision,  pro- 
ducing with  industrious  craft  a  fairy  creation 
of  her  own.  Under  her  plastic  want  the  bar- 
ren rocks  frowned  upon  the  watery  waste  in 
the  semblance  of  lofty  towers  and  high  em- 
battled castles, — trees  assumed  the  direful 
forms  of  mighty  giants,  and  the  inaccessible 
summits  of  the  mountains  seemed  peopled 
with  a  thousand  shadowy  beings. 

Thus  happily  did  they  pursue  their  course, 
until  they  entered  upon  those  awful  defiles 
denominated  the  Highlands,  where  it  would 
seem  that  the  gigantic  Titans  had  erst  waged 
their  impious  war  with  heaven,  piling  up  cliffs 
on  cliffs,  and  hurling  vast  masses  of  rock  in 
wild  confusion.  But  in  sooth  very  different 
is  the  history  of  these  cloud-capt  mountains. 
These    in    ancient    days,    before   the    Hudson 

82 


poured  its  waters  from  the  lakes,  formed  one 
vast  prison,  within  whose  rocky  bosom  the 
omnipotent  Manetho  confined  the  rebellious 
spirits  who  repined  at  his  control.  Here,  bound 
in  adamantine  chains,  or  jammed  in  rifted 
pines,  or  crushed  by  ponderous  rocks,  they 
groaned  for  many  an  age.  At  length  the  con- 
quering Hudson,  in  its  career  towards  the 
ocean,  burst  open  their  prison-house,  rolling 
its  tide  triumphantly  through  the  stupendous 
ruins. 

Still,  however,  do  many  of  them  lurk  about 
their  old  abodes;  and  these  it  is,  according  to 
venerable  legends,  that  cause  the  echoes  which 
resound  throughout  these  awful  solitudes, — 
which  are  nothing  but  their  angry  clamors 
when  any  noise  disturbs  the  profoundness  of 
their  repose.  For  when  the  elements  are  agi- 
tated by  tempest,  when  the  winds  are  up  and 
the  thunder  rolls,  then  horrible  is  the  yelling 
and  howling  of  these  troubled  spirits,  making 
the  mountains  to  rebellow  with  their  hideous 
uproar;  for  at  such  times  it  is  said  that  they 
think  the  great  Manetho  is  returning  once 
more  to  plunge  them  in  gloomy  caverns,  and 
renew   their   intolerable   captivity. 

But  all  these  fair  and  glorious  scenes  were 
lost  upon  the  gallant  Stuyvesant;  naught  oc- 
cupied his  mind  but  thoughts  of  iron  war,  and 

33 


pround  anticipations  of  hardy  deeds  of  arms. 
Neither  did  his  honest  crew  trouble  their  heads 
with  any  romantic  speculations  of  the  kind. 
The  pilot  at  the  helm  quietly  smoked  his  pipe, 
thinking  of  nothing  either  past,  present  or  to 
come; — those  of  his  comrades  who  were  not 
industriously  smoking  under  the  hatches  were 
listening  with  open  mouths  to  Antony  Van 
Corlear. 

And  now  I  am  going  to  tell  a  fact,  which  I 
doubt  much  my  readers  will  hesitate  to  be- 
lieve; but  if  they  do,  they  are  welcome  not 
to  believe  a  word  in  this  whole  history,  for 
nothing  it  contains  is  more  true.  It  must  be 
known  then  that  the  nose  of  Antony  the 
trumpeter  was  of  a  very  lusty  size,  strutting 
boldly  from  his  countenance  like  a  mountain 
of  Golconda;  being  sumptuouslybedecked  with 
rubies  and  other  precious  stones, — the  true 
regalia  of  a  king  of  good  fellows,  which  jolly 
Bacchus  grants  to  all  who  bouse  it  heartily 
at  the  flagon.  Now,  thus  it  happened,  that 
bright  and  early  in  the  morning,  the  good 
Antony,  having  washed  his  burly  visage,  was 
leaning  over  the  quarter-railing  of  the  galley, 
contemplating  it  in  the  glassy  wave  below. 
Just  at  this  moment  the  illustrious  sun,  break- 
ing in  all  its  splendor  from  behind  a  high  bluff 
of  the  highlands,  did  dart   one   of   his   most 

34 


potent  beams  full  upon  the  refulgent  nose  of  the 
sounder  of  brass — the  reflection  of  which  shot 
straightway  down,  hissing-hot,  into  the  water, 
and  killed  a  mighty  sturgeon  that  was  sport- 
ing beside  the  vessel!  This  huge  monster,  being 
with  infinite  labor  hoisted  on  board,  furnished 
a  luxurious  repast  to  all  the  crew,  being  ac- 
counted of  excellent  flavor,  excepting  about 
the  wound,  where  it  smacked  a  little  of  brim- 
stone; and  this,  on  my  veracity,  was  the 
first  time  that  ever  sturgeon  was  eaten  in 
these  parts  by  Christian  people. 

When  this  astonishing  miracle  came  to  be 
make  known  to  Peter  Stuyvesant,  and  that 
he  tasted  of  the  unknown  fish,  he,  as  may  well 
be  supposed,  marvelled  exceedingly;  and  as 
a  monument  thereof,  he  gave  the  name  An- 
tony's Nose  to  a  stout  promontory  in  the 
neighborhood;  and  it  has  continued  to  be 
called  Antony's  Nose  ever  since  that  time. 

The  good  people  of  New  Amsterdam  crowd- 
ed down  to  the  Battery, — that  blest  resort, 
from  whence  so  many  a  tender  prayer  has 
been  wafted,  so  many  a  fair  hand  waved,  so 
many  a  tearful  look  been  cast  by  lovesick  dam- 
sel, after  the  lessening  bark,  bearing  her  ad- 
venturous swain  to  distant  climes! — Here  the 
populace  watched  with  straining  eyes  the 
gallant  squadron,  as    it  slowly  floated  down 

35 


the  bay,  and  when  the  intervening  land  at 
the  Narrows  shut  it  from  their  sight,  gradually 
dispersed  with  silent  tongues  and  downcast 
countenances. 


36 


The  Journey  of  Van  Rensellaer  the 

Patroon  from  New  York  to  Albany 

as  narrated  by  Irving 


One  day  when  Wouter  Van  Twiller  and 
his  counsellors  were  smoking  and  pondering.  . 
over  the  affairs  of  the  province  they  were 
roused  by  the  sound  of  a  cannon.  Sallying 
forth  they  beheld  a  strange  vessel  at  anchor 
in  the  bay.  After  a  while,  a  boat  put  off  for 
land,  and  a  stranger  stepped  on  shore, — a 
lofty,  lordly  kind  of  man,  tall  and  dry,  with 
a  meagre  face,  furnished  with  huge  moustache 
He  was  clad  in  Flemish  doublet  and  hose,  and 
an  insufferably  tall  hat,  with  a  cocktail  feather. 
Such  was  the  patroon  Killian  Van  Rensellaer 
who  had  come  out  from  Holland  to  found  a 
colony  or  patroonship  on  a  great  tract  of  wild 
land,  granted  to  him  by  their  High  Mighti- 
nesses the  Lords  States  General,  in  the  upper 
regions  of  the  Hudson. 

And  now,  from  time  to  time,  floated  down 
tidings  to  the  Manhattoes  of  the  growing  im- 
portance of  this  new  colony,     Every  account 

37 


represented  Killian  Van  Rensellaer  as  rising 
in  importance  and  becoming  a  mighty  pa- 
troon  in  the  land.  He  had  received  more  re- 
cruits from  Holland.  His  patroonship  of  Ren- 
sellaerwick  lay  immediately  below  Fort  Au- 
rania,  and  extended  for  several  miles  on  each 
side  of  the  Hudson,  beside  embracing  the 
mountainous  region  of  the  Helderberg.  Over 
all  this  he  claimed  to  hold  separate  jurisdic- 
tion, independent  of  the  colonial  authorities 
of  New  Amsterdam. 

At  length  tidings  came  that  the  patroon  of 
Rensellaerwick  had  extended  his  usurpations 
along  the  river,  beyond  the  limits  granted 
him  by  their  High  Mightinesses;  and  that 
he  had  even  seized  upon  a  rocky  island  in  the 
Hudson,  commonly  known  by  the  name  of 
Beam  Island,  where  he  was  erecting  a  fortress 
to  be  called  by  the  lordly  name  of  "Rensel- 
laerstein." 

Wouter  Van  Twiller  was  roused  by  this 
intelligence.  After  consulting  with  his  bur- 
gomasters, he  dispatched  a  letter  to  the  pa- 
troon of  Rensellaerwick,  demanding  by  what 
right  he  had  seized  upon  this  island,  which 
lay  beyond  the  bounds  of  his  patroonship. 
The  answer  of  Killian  Van  Rensellaer  was 
in  his  own  lordly  style,  "By  wapen  rccht!" — 
that  is  to  say,  by  the  right  of  arms,  or,  in 

38 


common  parlance,  by  club-law.  This  answer 
plunged  the  worthy  Wouter  in  one  of  the  deep- 
est doubts  he  had  in  the  whole  course  of  his 
administration;  in  the  meantime,  while  Wout- 
er doubted,  the  lordly  Killian  went  on  to 
finish  his  fortress  of  Rensellaerstein,  about 
which  I  foresee  I  shall  have  something  to  record 
in  a  future  chapter  of  this  most  eventful  history. 
In  the  fulness  of  time  the  yacht  arrived  be- 
fore Beam  Island,  and  Antony  the  Trumpeter, 
mounting  the  poop,  sounded  a  parley  to  the 
fortress.  In  a  little  while  the  steeple  crowned 
hat  of  Nicholas  Koorn,  the  wacht-meester, 
rose  above  the  battlements,  followed  by  his 
iron  visage,  and  ultimately  his  whole  person, 
armed,  as  before  to  the  very  teeth;  while  one 
by  one,  a  whole  row  of  Helderbergers  reared 
their  round  burly  heads  above  the  wall,  and 
beside  each  pumpkin-head  peered  the  end  of  a 
rusty  musket.  Nothing  daunted  by  this  for- 
midable array  Antony  Van  Corlear  drew  forth 
and  read  his  missive  from  William  the  Testy 
ordering  the  garrison  to  quit  the  premises 
bag  and  baggage  on  pain  of  vengeance  of  the 
potentate  of  the  Manhattoes.  In  reply  the 
wacht-meester  applied  the  thumb  of  his  right 
hand  to  the  end  of  his  nose  and  the  thumb  of 
his  left  hand  to  the  little  finger  of  his  right, 
and  spreading  each  hand  like  a  fan,  made  an 

39 


aerial  flourish  with  his  fingers.  Antony  Van 
Corlear  was  sorely  perplexed  to  understand 
this  sign  which  seemed  to  him  something  mys- 
terious and  masonic.  Not  liking  to  betray 
his  ignorance  he  again  read  with  a  loud  voice 
the  missive  of  William  the  Testy,  and  again 
Nicholas  Koorn  applied  the  thumb  of  his 
right  hand  to  the  end  of  his  nose,  and  repeated 
this  kind  of  nasal  weathercock.  Anthony 
Van  Corlear  now  persuaded  himself  that  this 
was  some  shorthand  sign  or  symbol,  current 
in  diplomacy,  which,  though  unintelligible 
to  a  new  diplomat,  like  himself,  would  spell 
volumes  to  the  experienced  intellect  of  Wil- 
liam the  Testy;  considering  his  embassy  there- 
fore at  an  end  he  sounded  his  trumpet  with 
great  complacency,  and  set  sail  on  his  return 
down  the  river,  every  now  and  then  practic- 
ing the  mysterious  sign  of  the  wacht-meester 
to  keep  it  accurately  in  mind. 

Arrived  at  New  Amsterdam  he  made  a 
faithful  report  of  his  embassy  to  the  Governor, 
accompanied  by  a  manual  exhibition  of  the 
response  of  Nicholas  Koorn.  The  Governor 
was  equally  perplexed  with  his  embassy.  He 
was  deeply  versed  in  the  mysteries  of  Free 
Masonry,  but  they  threw  no  light  on  the  mat- 
ter. He  knew  every  variety  of  windmill  and 
weathercock  but  was  not  a  whit  the  wiser  as 

40 


to  the  aerial  sign  in  question.  He  called  a 
meeting  of  his  Council.  Antony  Van  Corlear 
stood  forth  in  the  midst  and  putting  the 
thumb  of  his  right  hand  to  his  nose  and  the 
thumb  of  his  left  hand  to  the  finger  of  the 
right,  he  gave  a  faithful  facsimile  of  the  por- 
tentous sign.  Having  a  nose  of  unusual 
dimensions,  it  was  as  if  the  reply  was  placed 
in  capitals,  but  all  in  vain,  the  worthy  burgo- 
masters were  equally  perplexed  with  the 
Governor.  Each  one  put  his  thumb  to  the 
end  of  his  nose,  spread  his  fingers  like  a  fan, 
imitated  the  motion  of  Antony  Van  Corlear 
and  smoked  in  dubious  silence.  Several  times 
was  Antony  obliged  to  stand  forth  like  a  fugle- 
man, and  repeat  the  sign,  and  each  time  a  cir- 
cle of  nasal  weathercocks  might  be  seen  in  the 
Council  Chamber. 

The  Council  broke  up  in  sore  perplexity. 
The  matter  got  abroad  and  Antony  Van  Corlear 
was  stopped  at  every  corner  to  repeat  the  sig- 
nal to  a  knot  of  anxious  newsmongers,  each 
of  whom  departed  with  his  thumb  to  his  nose 
and  his  fingers  in  the  air,  to  carry  the  story 
home  to  his  family. 

And  it  is  still  said  that  to  the  present  day 
the  thumb  to  the  nose  and  the  ringers  in  the 
air  is  apt  to  be  the  reply  of  the  Helderbergcrs 
whenever  called  upon  for  any  long  arrears  of  rent. 

41 


Oloffe  Van  Kortlandt's  Dream  at  the 
Battery  of  Manhattan 


His  wonderful  prophecy  of  the  founding  of 

New  York  City  and  its  marvelous 

fulfilment 


Washington  Irving  now  recalls  and  recites 
to  us  at  our  request  the  "Dream  of  Oloffe 
Van  Kortlandt"  and  its  early  fulfilment  which 
he  also  at  times  refers  to,  when  speaking  of 
New  York,  as  "A  lively  and  wonderful  chick- 
en hatched  from  the  egg  of  old  Communipaw" 
so  he  now  relates  to  us  how  (some  two  hundred 
years  ago)  the  sage  Oloffe  voyaged  from  Com- 
munipaw  Bay  to  the  Battery  where  he  had  a 
most  remarkable  dream  now  completely  ful- 
filled that  the  good  St.  Nicholas  came  riding 
over  the  tops  of  the  trees,  and  descended  upon 
the  island  of  Manhattan  and  sat  himself  down 
and  smoked,  "and  the  smoke  ascended  in  the 
sky,  and  formed  a  cloud  overhead;  and  Oloffe 

42 


bethought  him,  and  he  hastened  and  climbed 
up  to  the  top  of  one  of  the  tallest  trees,  and 
saw  that  the  smoke  spread  over  a  great  ex- 
tent of  country;  and,  as  he  considered  it  more 
attentively,  he  fancied  that  the  great  volume 
assumed  a  variety  of  marvelous  forms,  where, 
in  dim  obscurity,  he  saw  shadowed  out  palaces 
and  domes  and  lofty  spires,  all  of  which  lasted 
but  a  moment,  and  then  passed  away."  So 
New  York,  like  Alba  Longa  and  Rome,  and 
other  cities  of  antiquity,  was  under  the  im- 
mediate care  of  its  tutelar  saint.  Its  destiny 
was  foreshadowed,  for  now  the  palaces  and 
domes  and  lofty  spires  are  real  and  genuine, 
and  something  more  than  dreams  are  made  of. 


43 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow 

In  the  bosom  of  one  of  those  spacious  coves 
which  indent  the  eastern  shore  of  the  Hudson, 
at  that  broad  expansion  of  the  river  denomi- 
nated by  the  ancient  Dutch  navigators  the 
Tappan  Zee,  and  where  they  always  prudently 
shortened  sail,  and  implored  the  protection  of 
St.  Nicholas  when  they  crossed,  there  lies  a 
small  market-town  or  rural  port,  which  by 
some  is  called  Greensburgh,  but  which  is 
more  generally  and  properly  known  by  the 
name  of  Tarry  Town.  This  name  was  given, 
we  are  told,  in  former  days,  by  the  good  house- 
wives of  the  adjacent  country,  from  the  in- 
veterate propensity  of  their  husbands  to 
linger  about  the  village  tavern  on  market  days. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  I  do  not  vouch  for  the  fact, 
but  merely  advert  to  it,  for  the  sake  of  being 
precise  and  authentic.  Not  far  from  this 
village,  perhaps  about  two  miles,  there  is  a 
little  valley,  or  rather  lap  of  land,  among  high 
hills,  which  is  one  of  the  quietest  places  in  the 
whole  world.  A  small  brook  glides  through 
it,  with  just  murmur  enough  to  lull    one   to 

44 


repose;  and  the  occasional  whistle  of  a  quail,  or 
tapping  of  a  woodpecker,  is  almost  the  only 
sound  that  ever  breaks  in  upon  the  uniform 
tranquillity. 

I  recollect  that,  when  a  stripling,  my  first 
exploit  in  squirrel-shooting  was  in  a  grove  of 
tall  walnut-trees  that  shades  one  side  of  the 
valley.  I  had  wandered  into  it  at  noon  time, 
when  all  nature  is  peculiarly  quiet,  and  was 
startled  by  the  roar  of  my  own  gun,  as  it  broke 
the  Sabbath  stillness  around,  and  was  pro- 
longed and  reverberated  by  the  angry  echoes. 
If  ever  I  should  wish  for  a  retreat,  whither 
I  might  steal  from  the  world  and  its  distrac- 
tions, and  dream  quietly  away  the  remnant  of 
a  troubled  life,  I  know  of  none  more  promising 
than  this  little  valley. 

From  the  listless  repose  of  the  place,  and  the 
peculiar  character  of  its  inhabitants,  who  are 
descendants  from  the  original  Dutch  settlers, 
this  sequestered  glen  has  long  been  known  by 
the  name  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  and  its  rustic  lads 
are  called  the  Sleepy  Hollow  Boys  throughout 
all  the  neighboring  country.  A  drowsy, 
dreamy  influence  seems  to  hang  over  the  land 
and  to  pervade  the  very  atmosphere.  Some 
say  that  the  place  was  bewitched  by  a  high 
German  doctor,  during  the  early  days  of  the 
settlement;  others,  that  an  old  Indian  chief, 

45 


the  prophet  or  wizard  of  his  tribe,  held  his 
pow-wows  there  before  the  country  was  dis- 
covered by  Master  Hendrick  Hudson.  Cer- 
tain it  is,  the  place  still  continues  under  the 
sway  of  some  witching  power,  that  holds  a 
spell  over  the  minds  of  the  good  people,  caus- 
ing them  to  walk  in  a  continual  reverie.  They 
are  given  to  all  kinds  of  marvellous  beliefs; 
are  subject  to  trances  and  visions;  and  fre- 
quently see  strange  sights,  and  hear  music  and 
voices  in  the  air.  The  whole  neighborhood 
abounds  with  local  tales,  haunted  spots,  and 
twilight  superstitions;  stars  shoot  and  meteors 
glare  oftener  across  the  valley  than  in  any 
other  part  of  the  country,  and  the  nightmare, 
with  her  whole  nine  fold,  seems  to  make  it  the 
favorite  scene  of  her  gambols. 

The  dominant  spirit,  however,  that  haunts 
this  enchanted  region,  and  seems  to  be  com- 
mander-in-chief of  all  the  powers  of  the  air, 
is  the  apparition  of  a  figure  on  horseback 
without  a  head.  It  is  said  by  some  to  be  the 
ghost  of  a  Hessian  trooper,  whose  head  had 
been  carried  away  by  a  cannon-ball,  in  some 
nameless  battle  during  the  Revolutionary  war; 
and  who  is  ever  and  anon  seen  by  the  country 
folk,  hurrying  along  the  gloom  of  night,  as  if 
on  wings  of  the  wind.  His  haunts  are  not 
confined  to  the  valley,  but  extend  at  times  to 

46 


the  adjacent  roads,  and  especially  to  the  vicin- 
ity of  a  church  at  no  great  distance.  Indeed, 
certain  of  the  most  authentic  historians  of 
those  parts,  who  have  been  careful  in  collect- 
ing and  collating  the  floating  facts  concerning 
this  spectre,  allege  that  the  body  of  the  troop- 
er, having  been  buried  in  the  church-yard,  the 
ghost  rides  forth  to  the  scene  of  battle  in 
nightly  quest  of  his  head;  and  that  the  rushing 
speed  with  which  he  sometimes  passes  along 
the  Hollow,  like  a  midnight  blast,  is  owing  to 
his  being  belated,  and  in  a  hurry  to  get  back 
to  the  churchyard  before  daybreak. 

Such  is  the  general  purport  of  this  legendary 
superstition,  which  has  furnished  material 
for  many  a  wild  story  in  that  region  of  shadows; 
and  the  specter  is  known,  at  all  the  country 
firesides,  by  the  name  of  the  Headless  Horse- 
man of  Sleepy  Hollow. 

It  is  remarkable  that  the  visionary  propen- 
sity I  have  mentioned  is  not  confined  to  the 
native  inhabitants  of  the  valley,  but  is  un- 
consciously imbibed  by  every  one  who  re- 
sides there  for  a  time.  However  wide-awake 
they  may  have  been  before  they  entered  that 
sleepy  region,  they  are  sure,  in  a  little  time, 
to  inhale  the  witching  influence  of  the  air,  and 
begin  to  grow  imaginative — to  dream  dreams, 
and    see    apparitions. 

47 


I  mention  this  peaceful  spot  with  all  possible 
laud;  for  it  is  in  such  little  retired  Dutch  val- 
leys, found  here  and  there  embosomed  in  the 
great  State  of  New  York,  that  population, 
manners  and  customs,  remain  fixed;  while 
the  great  torrent  of  migration  and  improvement 
which  is  making  such  incessant  changes  in 
other  parts  of  this  restless  country,  sweeps 
by  them  unobserved.  They  are  like  those 
little  nooks  of  still  water  which  border  a  rapid 
stream;  where  we  may  see  the  straw  and  bubble 
riding  quietly  at  anchor,  or  slowly  revolving 
in  their  mimic  harbor,  undisturbed  by  the 
rush  of  the  passing  current.  Though  many 
years  have  elapsed  since  I  trod  the  drowsy 
shades  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  yet  I  question  wheth- 
er I  should  not  still  find  the  same  trees  and  the 
same  families  vegetating  in  its  sheltered  bosom. 

In  this  by-place  of  nature,  there  abode,  in 
a  remote  period  of  American  history,  that  is 
to  say,  some  thirty  years  since,  a  worthy 
wight  of  the  name  of  Ichabod  Crane;  who 
sojourned,  or,  as  he  expressed  it,  "tarried," 
in  Sleepy  Hollow,  for  the  purpose  of  instruct- 
ing the  children  of  the  vicinity. 

That  all  this  might  not  be  too  onerous  on 
the  purses  of  his  rustic  patrons,  who  are  apt 
to  consider  the  cost  of  schooling  a  grievous 
burden,  and  schoolmasters  as  mere  drones,  he 

48 


had  various  ways  of  rendering  himself  both 
useful  and  agreeable.  He  assisted  the  farm- 
ers occasionally  in  the  lighter  labors  of  their 
farms;  helped  to  make  hay,  mended  the  fences; 
took  the  horses  to  water;  drove  the  cows  from 
pasture;  and  cut  wood  for  the  winter  fire. 
He  laid  aside,  too,  all  the  dominant  dignity  and 
absolute  sway  with  which  he  lorded  it  in  his 
little  empire,  the  school,  and  became  wonder- 
fully gentle  and  ingratiating.  He  found  favor 
in  the  eyes  of  the  mothers,  by  petting  the 
children,  particularly  the  youngest;  and  like 
the  lion  bold,  which  whilom  so  magnani- 
mously the  lamb  did  hold,  he  would  sit  with  a 
child  on  one  knee,  and  rock  a  cradle  with  his 
foot  for  whole  hours  together. 

In  addition  to  his  other  vocations,  he  was 
the  singing-master  of  the  neighborhood,  and 
picked  up  many  bright  shillings  by  instruct- 
ing the  young  folks  in  psalmody.  It  was  a 
matter  of  no  little  vanity  to  him,  on  Sunday 
to  take  his  station  in  front  of  the  church  gal- 
lery, with  a  band  of  chosen  singers  where,  in 
his  own  mind,  he  completely  carried  away  the 
psalm  from  the  parson.  Certain  it  is,  his 
voice  resounded  far  above  all  the  rest  of  the 
congregation;  and  there  are  peculiar  quavers 
still  to  be  heard  in  that  church,  and  which  may 
even  be  heard  half  a  mile  off,  quite  to  the 

49 


opposite  side  of  the  mill-pond,  on  a  still  Sunday 
morning,  which  are  said  to  be  legitimately 
descended  from  the  nose  of  Ichabod  Crane. 
Thus,  by  divers  little  makeshifts  in  that  in- 
genious way  which  is  commonly  denominated 
"by  hook  and  by  crook"  the  worthy  pedagogue 
got  on  tolerably  enough,  and  was  thought  by 
all  who  understood  nothing  of  the  labor  of  head 
work  to  have  a  wonderfully  easy  life  of  it. 
The  school  master  is  generally  a  man  of 
some  importance  in  the  female  circle  of  a  ru- 
ral neighborhood;  being  considered  a  kind  of 
idle  gentlemanlike  personage,  of  vastly  supe- 
rior taste  and  accomplishments  to  the  rough 
country  swains,  and,  indeed,  inferior  in  learn- 
ing only  to  the  parson.  His  appearance,  there- 
fore, is  apt  to  occasion  some  little  stir  at  the 
tea-table  of  a  farmhouse,  and  the  addition  of 
a  supernumerary  dish  of  cakes  or  sweetmeats, 
or,  peradventure,  the  parade  of  a  silver  tea- 
pot. Our  man  of  letters,  therefore,  was  pe- 
culiarly happy  in  the  smiles  of  all  country  dam- 
sels. How  he  would  figure  among  them  in  the 
churchyard,  between  services  on  Sundays! 
gathering  grapes  for  them  from  the  wild  vines 
that  overrun  the  surrounding  trees;  reciting 
for  their  amusement  all  the  epitaphs  on  the 
tombstones;  or  sauntering,  with  a  whole  bevy 
of    them,    along   the    banks    of  the  adjacent 

50 


mill-pond;  while  the  more  bashful  country 
pumpkins  hung  sheepishly  back,  envying  his 
superior  elegance  and  address. 

From  his  half  itinerant  life,  also,  he  was  a 
kind  of  traveling  gazette,  carrying  the  whole 
budget  of  local  gossip  from  house  to  house; 
so  that  his  appearance  was  always  greeted 
with  satisfaction.  He  was,  moreover,  es- 
teemed by  the  women  as  a  man  of  great  eru- 
dition, for  he  had  read  several  books  quite 
through,  and  was  a  perfect  master  of  Cotton 
Mather's  history  of  New  England  Witchcraft, 
in  which,  by  the  way,  he  most  firmly  and  po- 
tently believed. 

He  was,  in  fact,  an  odd  mixture  of  small 
shrewdness  and  simple  credulity.  His  appe- 
tite for  the  marvelous,  and  his  powers  of  digest- 
ing it,  were  equally  extraordinary;  and  both 
had  been  increased  by  his  residence  in  this 
spellbound  region.  No  tale  was  too  gross  or 
monstrous  for  his  capacious  swallow.  It  was 
often  his  delight,  after  his  school  was  dismissed 
in  the  afternoon,  to  stretch  himself  on  the 
rich  bed  of  clover,  bordering  the  little  brook 
that  whimpered  by  his  school-house,  and  there 
con  over  old  Mather's  direful  tales,  until  the 
gathering  dusk  of  the  evening  made  the  print- 
ed page  a  mere  mist  before  his  eyes.  Then, 
as  he  wended  his  way,  by  swamp  and  stream 

51 


and  awful  woodland,  to  the  farmhouse  where 
he  happened  to  be  quartered,  every  sound  of 
nature,  at  that  witching  hour,  fluttered  his 
excited  imagination:  the  moan  of  the  whip- 
poorwill  from  the  hillside;  the  boding  cry 
of  the  tree-toad,  that  harbinger  of  storm;  the 
dreary  hooting  of  the  screech  owl,  or  the  sud- 
den rustling  in  the  thicket  of  birds  frightened 
from  their  roost. 

Another  of  his  sources  of  fearful  pleasure 
was,  to  pass  long  winter  evenings  with  the  old 
Dutch  wives,  as  they  sat  spinning  by  the  fire, 
with  a  row  of  apples  roasting  and  sputtering 
along  the  hearth,  and  listen  to  their  marvelous 
tales  of  ghosts  and  goblins,  and  haunted  fields, 
and  haunted  brooks,  and  haunted  bridges, 
and  haunted  houses,  and  particularly  of  the 
headless  horseman,  or  galloping  Hessian  of 
the  Hollow,  as  they  sometimes  called  him.  He 
would  delight  them  equally  by  his  anecdotes 
of  witchcraft,  and  of  the  direful  moans  and 
portentous  sights  and  sound  in  the  air,  which 
prevailed  in  the  earlier  times  of  Connecticut; 
and  would  frighten  them  wofully  with  specu- 
lations upon  comets  and  shooting  stars;  and 
with  the  alarming  fact  that  the  world  did  ab- 
solutely turn  round,  and  that  they  were  half 
the  time  topsy-turvy! 

What  fearful  shapes  and  shadows  beset  his 

52 


path  amidst  the  dim  and  ghastly  glare  of  a 
snowy  night! — With  what  wistful  look  did  he 
eye  every  trembling  ray  of  light  streaming 
across  the  waste  fields  from  some  distant  win- 
dow!— How  often  was  he  appalled  by  some 
shrub  covered  with  snow,  which,  like  a  sheeted 
spectre,  beset  his  very  path! — How  often  did 
he  shrink  with  curdling  awe  at  the  sound  of 
his  own  steps  on  the  frosty  crust  beneath  his 
feet;  and  dread  to  look  over  his  shoulder,  lest 
he  should  behold  some  uncouth  being  tramp- 
ing close  behind  him! — and  how  often  was  he 
thrown  into  complete  dismay  by  some  rushing 
blast,  howling  among  the  trees,  in  the  idea 
that  it  was  the  Galloping  Hessian  on  one  of  his 
nightly  scourings! 

All  these,  however,  were  mere  terrors  of  the 
night,  phantoms  of  the  mind  that  walk  in 
darkness;  and  though  he  had  seen  many  spec- 
tres in  his  time,  and  been  more  than  once  beset 
by  Satan  in  divers  shapes,  in  his  lonely  peram- 
bulations, yet  daylight  put  an  end  to  all  these 
evils ;  and  he  would  have  passed  a  pleasant  life  of 
it,  in  despite  of  the  devil  and  all  his  works,  if 
his  path  had  not  been  crossed  by  a  being  that 
causes  more  perplexity  to  mortal  man  than 
ghosts,  goblins,  and  the  whole  race  of  witches 
put  together,  and  that  was — a  woman. 

Among  the  musical  disciples  who  assembled, 

53 


one  evening  in  each  week,  to  receive  his  instruc- 
tions in  psalmody,  was  Katrina  Van  Tassel 
the  daughter  and  only  child  of  a  substantial 
Dutch  farmer.  She  was  a  blooming  lass  of 
fresh  eighteen;  plump  as  a  partridge;  ripe 
and  melting  and  rosy  cheeked  as  one  of  her 
father's  peaches,  and  universally  famed,  not 
merely  for  her  beauty,  but  her  vast  expecta- 
tions. She  was  withal  a  little  of  a  coquette, 
as  might  be  perceived  even  in  her  dress,  which 
was  a  mixture  of  ancient  and  modern  fashions, 
as  most  suited  to  set  off  her  charms.  She 
wore  the  ornaments  of  pure  yellow  gold, 
which  her  great-great-grandmother  had  brought 
over  from  Saardam;  the  tempting  stomacher 
of  the  olden  time;  and  withal  a  provoking 
short  petticoat,  to  display  the  prettiest  foot 
and  ankle  in  the  country  round. 

Ichabod  Crane  had  a  soft  and  foolish  heart 
towards  the  sex;  and  it  is  not  to  be  wondered 
at,  that  so  tempting  a  morsel  soon  found  favor 
in  his  eyes;  more  especially  after  he  had  visit- 
ed her  in  her  paternal  mansion.  Old  Baltus 
Van  Tassel  was  a  perfect  picture  of  a  thriving, 
contented,  liberal-hearted  farmer.  He  seldom, 
it  is  true,  sent  either  his  eyes  or  his  thoughts 
beyond  the  boundaries  of  his  own  farm;  but 
within  those  everything  was  snug,  happy,  and 
well-conditioned.     He   was   satisfied   with   his 

54 


wealth,  but  not  proud  of  it;  and  piqued  him- 
self upon  the  hearty  abundance,  rather  than 
the  style  in  which  he  lived.  His  stronghold 
was  situated  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson,  in 
one  of  those  green,  sheltered,  fertile  nooks,  in 
which  the  Dutch  farmers  are  so  fond  of  nest- 
ling. A  great  elm  tree  spread  its  broad  branch- 
es over  it;  at  the  foot  of  which  bubbled  up  a 
spring  of  the  softest  and  sweetest  water,  in  a 
little  well,  formed  of  a  barrel;  and  then  stole 
sparkling  away  through  the  grass,  to  a  neigh- 
boring brook,  that  bubbled  along  among  alders 
and  dwarf  willows.  Hard  by  the  farmhouse 
was  a  vast  barn,  that  might  have  served  for  a 
church;  every  window  and  crevice  of  which 
seemed  bursting  forth  with  the  treasures  of 
the  farm;  the  flail  was  busily  resounding  with- 
in it  from  morning  to  night;  swallows  and 
martins  skimmed  twittering  about  the  eaves; 
and  rows  of  pigeons,  some  w^ith  one  eye  turned 
up,  as  if  watching  the  weather,  some  with  their 
heads  under  their  wings,  or  buried  in  their 
bosoms,  and  others  swelling,  and  cooing,  and 
bowing  about  their  dames,  were  enjoying  the 
sunshine  on  the  roof.  Sleek  unwieldy  pork- 
ers were  grunting  in  the  repose  and  abundance 
of  their  pens;  whence  sallied  forth,  now  and 
then,  troops  of  sucking  pigs,  as  if  to  snuff  the 
air.     A  stately  squadron  of  snowy  geese  were 

55 


riding  in  an  adjoining  pond,  convoying  whole 
fleets  of  ducks;  regiments  of  turkeys  were 
gobbling  through  the  farmyard,  and  guinea 
fowls  fretting  about  it,  like  ill-tempered  house- 
wives, with  their  peevish  discontented  cry. 
Before  the  barn  door  strutted  the  gallant  cock, 
that  pattern  of  a  husband,  a  warrior,  and  a 
fine  gentleman,  clapping  his  burnished  wings, 
and  crowing  in  the  pride  and  gladness  of  his 
heart — sometimes  tearing  up  the  earth  with 
his  feet,  and  then,  generously  calling  his  ever- 
hungry  family  of  wives  and  children  to  enjoy 
the  rich  morsel  which  he  had  discovered. 

When  he  entered  the  house  the  conquest  of 
his  heart  was  complete.  It  was  one  of  those 
spacious  farmhouses,  with  high-ridged,  but 
lowly-sloping  roofs,  built  in  the  style  handed 
down  from  the  first  Dutch  settlers;  the  low 
projecting  eaves  forming  a  piazza  along  the 
front,  capable  of  being  closed  up  in  bad  weath- 
er. Under  this  were  hung  flails,  harness,  va- 
rious utensils  of  husbandry,  and  nets  for  fish- 
ing in  the  neighboring  river.  Benches  were 
built  along  the  sides  for  summer  use;  and  a 
great  spinning-wheel  at  one  end,  and  a  churn 
at  the  other,  showed  the  various  uses  to  which 
this  important  porch  might  be  devoted.  From 
this  piazza  the  wondering  Ichabod  entered 
the    hall,    which    formed    the    center    of    the 

56 


mansion  and  the  place  of  usual  residence.  Here, 
rows  of  resplendent  pewter,  ranged  on  a  long 
dresser,  dazzled  his  eyes.  In  one  corner  stood 
a  huge  bag  of  wool  ready  to  be  spun;  in  an- 
other a  quantity  of  linsey-woolsey  just  from 
the  loom;  ears  of  Indian  corn,  and  strings  of 
dried  apples  and  peaches,  hung  in  gay  festoon 
along  the  walls,  mingled  with  the  gaud  of  red 
peppers;  and  a  door  left  ajar  gave  him  a  peep 
into  the  best  parlor,  where  the  claw-footed 
chairs,  and  dark  mahogany  tables,  shone  like 
mirrors;  and  irons,  with  their  accompanying 
shovel  and  tongs,  glistened  from  their  covert 
of  asparagus  tops;  mock-oranges  and  conch- 
shells  decorated  the  mantel-piece;  strings  of 
various  colored  birds'  eggs  were  suspended 
above  it:  a  great  ostrich  egg  was  hung  from 
the  centre  of  the  room,  and  a  corner  cupboard, 
knowingly  left  open,  displayed  immense  treas- 
ures of  old  silver  and  well-mended  china. 

From  the  moment  Ichabod  laid  his  eyes 
upon  these  regions  of  delight,  the  peace  of  his 
mind  was  at  an  end,  and  his  only  study  was 
how  to  gain  the  affections  of  the  peerless 
daughter  of  Van  Tassel.  In  this  enterprise, 
however,  he  had  more  real  difficulties  than 
generally  fell  to  the  lot  of  a  knight-errant  of 
yore,  who  seldom  had  anything  but  giants, 
enchanters,     fiery    dragons,     and     such     like 

57 


easily-conquered  adversaries,  to  contend  with; 
and  had  to  make  his  way  merely  through 
gates  of  iron  and  brass,  and  walls  of  adamant 
to  the  castle  keep,  where  the  lady  of  his  heart 
was  confined;  all  which  he  achieved  as  easily 
as  a  man  would  carve  his  way  to  the  centre  of 
a  Christmas  pie;  and  then  the  lady  gave  him 
her  hand  as  a  matter  of  course.  Ichabod, 
on  the  contrary,  had  to  win  his  way  to  the  heart 
of  a  country  coquette,  beset  with  a  labyrinth 
of  whims  and  caprices,  which  were  forever 
presenting  new  difficulties  and  impediments; 
and  he  had  to  encounter  a  host  of  fearful  ad- 
versaries of  real  flesh  and  blood,  the  numerous 
rustic  admirers,  who  beset  every  portal  to 
her  heart  keeping  a  watchful  and  angry  eye 
upon  each  other,  but  ready  to  fly  out  in  the 
common  cause  against  any  new  competitor. 
Among  these  the  most  formidable  was  a 
burly,  roaring,  roystering  blade,  of  the  name 
of  Abraham,  or,  according  to  the  Dutch  ab- 
breviation, Brom  Van  Brunt,  the  hero  of  the 
country  round,  which  rang  with  his  feats  of 
strength  and  hardihood.  He  was  broad- 
shouldered  and  double-jointed,  with  short 
curling  black  hair,  and  a  bluff,  but  not  un- 
pleasant countenance,  having  a  mingled  air 
of  fun  and  arrogance.  From  his  Herculean 
frame    and    great    powers    of  limb,    he    had 

58 


received  the  nickname  of  Brom  Bones,  by  which 
he  was  universally  known.  He  was  famed  for 
great  knowledge  and  skill  in  horsemanship 
being  as  dexterous  on  horseback  as  a  Tartar. 
He  was  foremost  at  all  races  and  cock-fights; 
and,  with  the  ascendency  which  bodily 
strength  acquires  in  rustic  life,  was  the  um- 
pire in  all  disputes,  setting  his  hat  on  one  side, 
and  giving  his  decisions  with  an  air  and  tone 
admitting  of  no  gainsay  or  appeal.  He  was 
always  ready  for  either  a  fight  or  a  frolic; 
but  had  more  mischief  than  ill-will  in  his  com- 
position; and,  with  all  his  overbearing  rough- 
ness, there  was  a  strong  dash  of  waggish  good 
humor  at  bottom.  He  had  three  or  four  boon 
companions,  who  regarded  him  as  their  model, 
and  at  the  head  of  whom  he  scoured  the  coun- 
try, attending  every  scene  of  feud  or  merri- 
ment for  miles  round.  In  cold  weather  he 
was  distinguished  by  a  fur  cap,  surmounted 
with  a  flaunting  fox's  tail;  and  when  the  folks 
at  a  country  gathering  descried  this  well- 
known  crest  at  a  distance,  whisking  about 
among  a  squad  of  hard  riders,  they  always 
stood  by  for  a  squall.  Sometimes  his  crew 
would  be  heard  dashing  along  past  the  farm- 
houses at  midnight,  with  whoop  and  halloo, 
like  a  troop  of  Don  Cossacks;  and  the  old 
dames,  startled  out  of  their  sleep,  would  listen 

59 


for  a  moment  till  the  hurry-scurry  had  clat- 
tered by,  and  then  exclaim,  "Ay,  there  goes 
Brom  Bones  and  his  gang!"  The  nieghbors 
looked  upon  him  with  a  mixture  of  awe,  ad- 
miration, and  good  will;  and  when  any  mad- 
cap prank,  or  rustic  brawl,  occurred  in  the 
vicinity,  always  shook  their  heads  and  war- 
ranted Brom  Bones  was  at  the  bottom  of  it. 

This  rantipole  hero  had  for  some  time  singled 
out  the  blooming  Katrina  for  the  object  of 
his  uncouth  gallantries,  and  though  his  amor- 
ous toyings  were  something  like  the  gentle 
caresses  and  endearments  of  a  bear,  yet  it  was 
whispered  that  she  did  not  altogether  dis- 
courage his  hopes.  Certain  it  is,  his  advances 
were  signals  for  rival  candidates  to  retire,  who 
felt  no  inclination  to  cross  a  lion  in  his  amours ; 
insomuch,  that  when  his  horse  was  seen  tied 
to  Van  Tassel's  paling,  on  a  Sunday  night,  a 
sure  sign  that  his  master  was  courting,  or, 
as  it  is  termed,  "sparking,"  within,  all  other 
suitors  passed  by  in  despair,  and  carried  the 
war   into   other   quarters. 

Such  was  the  formidable  rival  with  whom 
Ichabod  Crane  had  to  contend,  and,  consider- 
ing all  things,  a  stouter  man  than  he  would 
have  shrunk  from  the  competition,  and  a  wis- 
er man  would  have  despaired. 

To  have  taken  the  field  openly  against  his 

60 


rival  would  have  been  madness;  for  he  was 
not  a  man  to  be  thwarted  in  his  armours  any 
more  than  that  stormy  lover,  Achilles.  Ich- 
abod,  therefore,  made  his  advances  in  a  quiet 
and  gently-insinuating  manner.  Under  cov- 
er of  his  character  of  singing-master,  he  made 
frequent  visits  at  the  farmhouse;  not  that  he 
had  anything  to  apprehend  from  the  meddle- 
some interference  of  parents,  which  is  so  often 
a  stumbling-block  in  the  path  of  lovers.  Bait 
Van  Tassell  was  an  easy  indulgent  soul;  he 
loved  his  daughter  better  even  than  his  pipe, 
and,  like  a  reasonable  man  and  an  excellent 
father,  let  her  have  her  way  in  everything. 
His  notable  little  wife,  too,  had  enough  to  do 
to  attend  to  her  housekeeping  and  manage 
her  poultry;  for,  as  she  sagely  observed, 
ducks  and  geese  are  foolish  things,  and  must 
be  looked  after,  but  girls  can  take  care  of 
themselves.  Thus,  while  the  busy  dame  bust- 
led about  the  house,  or  plied  her  spinning- 
wheel  at  one  end  of  the  piazza,  honest  Bait 
would  sit  smoking  his  evening  pipe  at  the 
other,  watching  the  achievements  of  a  little 
wooden  warrior,  who,  armed  with  a  sword  in 
each  hand,  was  most  valiantly  fighting  the 
wind  on  the  pinnacle  of  the  barn.  In  the 
meantime,  Ichabod  would  carry  on  his  suit 
with  the  daughter  by  the  side  of  the  spring 

61 


under  the  great  elm,  or  sauntering  along  in 
the  twilight,  that  hour  so  favorable  to  the  lov- 
er's eloquence. 

He  who  wins  a  thousand  common  hearts  is 
therefore  entitled  to  some  renown;  but  he 
who  keeps  undisputed  sway  over  the  heart  of 
a  coquette,  is  indeed  a  hero.  Certain  it  is, 
this  was  not  the  case  with  the  redoubtable 
Brom  Bones;  and  from  the  moment  Ichabod 
Crane  made  his  advances,  the  interests  of  the 
former  evidently  declined;  his  horse  was  no 
longer  seen  tied  at  the  palings  on  Sunday 
nights,  and  a  deadly  feud  gradually  arose  be- 
tween him  and  the  preceptor  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 

He  was  gaunt  and  shagged,  with  a  ewe  neck 
and  a  head  like  a  hammer;  his  rusty  mane  and 
tail  were  tangled  and  knotted  with  burrs;  one 
eye  had  lost  its  pupil,  and  was  glaring  and 
spectral;  but  the  other  had  the  gleam  of  gen- 
uine devil  in  it.  Still  he  must  have  had  fire 
and  mettle  in  his  day,  if  we  may  judge  from 
the  name  he  bore  of  Gunpowder.  He  had, 
in  fact,  been  a  favorite  steed  of  his  master's 
the  choleric  Van  Ripper,  who  was  a  furious 
rider,  and  had  infused,  very  probably,  some 
of  his  own  spirit  into  the  animal;  for,  old  and 
brokendown  as  he  looked,  there  was  more  of 
the  lurking  devil  in  him  than  in  any  young 
filly  in  the  country. 

62 


Ichabod  was  a  suitable  figure  for  such  a 
steed.  He  rode  with  short  stirrups,  which 
brought  his  knees  nearly  up  to  the  pommel  of 
the  saddle;  his  sharp  elbows  stuck  out  like 
grasshoppers';  he  carried  his  whip  perpen- 
dicularly in  his  hand,  like  a  sceptre,  and,  as 
his  horse  jogged  on,  the  motion  of  his  arm 
was  not  unlike  the  flapping  of  a  pair  of  wings. 
A  small  wool  hat  rested  on  the  top  of  his  nose, 
for  so  his  scanty  strip  of  forehead  might  be 
called;  and  the  skirts  of  his  black  coat  flutter- 
ed out  almost  to  the  horse's  tail.  Such  was 
the  appearance  of  Ichabod  and  his  steed,  as 
he  shambled  out  of  the  gate  of  Hans  Van 
Ripper,  and  it  was  altogether  such  an  appari- 
tion as  is  seldom  to  be  met  with  in  broad  day- 
light. 

It  was,  as  I  have  said,  a  fine  autumnal  day, 
the  sky  was  clear  and  serene,  and  nature  wore 
that  rich  and  golden  livery  which  we  always 
associate  with  the  idea  of  abundance.  The 
forests  had  put  on  their  sober  brown  and  yel- 
low, while  some  trees  of  the  tenderer  kind  had 
been  nipped  by  the  frost  into  brilliant  dyes 
of  orange,  purple  and  scarlet.  Streaming 
files  of  wild  ducks  began  to  make  their  ap- 
pearance high  in  the  air;  the  bark  of  the  squir- 
rel might  be  heard  from  the  groves  of  beech  and 
hickory  nuts,  and  the  pensive  whistle  of  the  quail 

63 


at  intervals  from  the  neighboring  stubble-field. 
The  small  birds  were  taking  their  farewell 
banquets.  In  the  fulness  of  their  revelry, 
they  fluttered,  chirping  and  frolicking,  from 
bush  to  bush,  and  tree  to  tree,  capricious  from 
the  very  profusion  and  variety  around  them. 

As  Ichabod  jogged  slowly  on  his  way,  his 
eye,  ever  open  to  every  symptom  of  culinary 
abundance,  ranged  with  delight  over  the  treas- 
ures of  jolly  autumn.  On  all  sides  he  beheld 
vast  store  of  apples;  some  hanging  in  oppres- 
sive opulence  on  the  trees;  some  gathered 
into  baskets  and  barrels  for  the  market;  oth- 
ers heaped  up  in  rich  piles  for  the  cider-press. 
Farther  on  he  beheld  great  fields  of  Indian 
corn,  with  its  golden  ears  peeping  from  their 
leafy  coverts,  and  holding  out  the  promise  of 
cakes  and  hasty  pudding;  and  the  yellow 
pumpkins  lying  beneath  them,  turning  up 
their  fair  round  bellies  to  the  sun,  and  giving 
ample  prospects  of  the  most  luxurious  of  pies; 
and  anon  he  passed  the  fragrant  buckwheat 
fields,  breathing  the  odor  of  the  beehive,  and 
as  he  beheld  them,  soft  anticipations  stole  over 
his  mind  of  dainty  slapjacks,  well  buttered, 
and  garnished  with  honey  or  treacle,  by  the 
delicate  dimpled  hand  of  Katrina  Van  Tassel. 

Thus,  feeding  his  mind  with  many  sweet 
thoughts  and  "sugared  suppositions,"  he  jour- 

G4 


neyed  along  the  sides  of  a  range  of  hills  which 
look  out  upon  some  of  the  goodliest  scenes  of 
the  mighty  Hudson.  The  sun  gradually 
wheeled  his  broad  disk  down  into  the  west. 
The  wide  bosom  of  the  Tappan  Zee  lay  mo- 
tionless and  glassy,  excepting  that  here  and 
there  a  gentle  undulation  waved  and  pro- 
longed the  blue  shadow  of  the  distant  moun- 
tain. A  few  amber  clouds  floated  in  the  sky, 
without  a  breath  of  air  to  move  them.  The 
horizon  was  of  a  fine  golden  tint,  changing 
gradually  into  a  pure  apple  green,  and  from 
that  into  the  deep  blue  of  the  mid-heaven. 
A  slanting  ray  lingered  on  the  woody  crests 
of  the  precipices  that  overhung  some  parts  of 
the  river,  giving  greater  depth  to  the  dark- 
gray  and  purple  of  their  rocky  sides.  A  sloop 
was  loitering  in  the  distance,  dropping  slowly 
down  with  the  tide,  her  sail  hanging  uselessly 
against  the  mast;  and  as  the  reflection  of  the 
sky  gleamed  along  the  still  water,  it  seemed  as 
if  the  vessel  was  suspended  in  the  air. 

It  was  toward  evening  that  Ichabod  ar- 
rived at  the  castle  of  the  Heer  Van  Tassel, 
which  he  found  thronged  with  the  pride  and 
flower  of  the  adjacent  country.  Old  farmers, 
a  spare  leathern-faced  race,  in  homespun  coats 
and  breeches,  blue  stockings,  huge  shoes,  and 
magnificent     pewter     buckles.      Their      brisk 

65 


withered  little  dames,  in  close  crimped  caps, 
long-waisted  short-gowns,  homespun  petti- 
coats, with  scissors  and  pincushion,  and  gay 
calico  pockets  hanging  on  the  outside.  Bux- 
om lassies,  almost  as  antiquated  as  their  moth- 
ers, excepting  where  a  straw  hat,  a  fine  ribbon, 
or  perhaps  a  white  frock,  gave  symptoms  of 
city  innovation.  The  sons,  in  short  square- 
skirted  coats  with  rows  of  stupendous  brass 
buttons,  and  their  hair  generally  queued  in 
the  fashion  of  the  times,  especially  if  they 
could  procure  an  eel-skin  for  the  purpose,  it 
being  esteemed,  through  the  country,  as  a  po- 
tent nourisher  and  strengthener  of  the  hair. 

Brom  Bones,  however,  was  the  hero  of  the 
scene,  having  come  to  the  gathering  on  his 
favorite  steed  Daredevil,  a  creature,  like  him- 
self, full  of  mettle  and  mischief,  and  which  no 
one  but  himself  could  manage.  He  was,  in 
fact,  noted  for  preferring  vicious  animals, 
given  to  all  kinds  of  tricks,  which  kept  the 
rider  in  constant  risk  of  his  neck,  for  he  held  a 
tractable  well-broken  horse  as  unworthy  of  a 
lad  of  spirit. 

Fain  would  I  pause  to  dwell  upon  the  world 
of  charms  that  burst  upon  the  enraptured  gaze 
of  my  hero,  as  he  entered  the  state  parlor  of 
Van  Tassel's  mansion.  Not  those  of  the  bevy 
of  buxom  lassies,  with  their  luxurious  display 

66 


of  red  and  white;  but  the  ample  charms  of  a 
genuine  Dutch  country  tea-table,  in  the  sump- 
tuous time  of  autumn.  Such  heaped-up  plat- 
ters of  cakes  of  various  and  almost  inde- 
scribable kinds,  known  only  to  experienced 
Dutch  housewives!  There  was  the  doughty 
doughnut,  the  tenderer  oly  koek,  and  the 
crisp  and  crumbling  cruller;  sweet  cakes  and 
short  cakes,  ginger  cakes  and  honey  cakes, 
and  the  whole  family  of  cakes.  And  then 
there  were  apple  pies  and  peach  pies  and  pump- 
kin pies;  besides  slices  of  ham  and  smoked 
beef;  and  moreover  delectable  dishes  of  pre- 
served plums,  and  peaches,  and  pears,  and 
quinces;  not  to  mention  broiled  shad  and 
roasted  chickens,  together  with  bowls  of  milk 
and  cream,  all  mingled  higgledy-piggledy, 
pretty  much  as  I  have  enumerated  them, 
with  the  motherly  tea-pot  sending  up  its 
clouds  of  vapor  from  the  midst — Heaven  bless 
the  mark!  I  want  breath  and  time  to  dis- 
cuss this  banquet  as  it  deserves,  and  am  too 
eager  to  get  on  with  my  story.  Happily, 
Ichabod  Crane  was  not  in  so  great  a  hurry  as 
his  historian,  but  did  ample  justice  to  every 
dainty. 

He  was  a  kind  and  thankful  creature,  whose 
heart  dilated  in  proportion  as  his  skin  was 
filled  with  good  cheer;  and  whose  spirits  rose 

67 


with  eating  as  some  men's  do  with  drink.  He 
could  not  help,  too,  rolling  his  large  eyes  round 
him  as  he  ate,  and  chuckling  with  the  possi- 
bility that  he  might  one  day  be  lord  of  all 
this  scene  of  almost  unimaginable  luxury  and 
splendor.  Then,  he  thought,  how  soon  he'd 
turn  his  back  upon  the  old  school-house; 
snap  his  fingers  in  the  face  of  Hans  Van  Rip- 
per, and  every  other  niggardly  patron,  and 
kick  any  itinerant  pedagogue  out  of  doors 
that  should  dare  to  call  him  comrade! 

Old  Baltus  Van  Tassel  moved  about  among 
his  guests  with  a  face  dilated  with  content  and 
good  humor,  round  and  jolly  as  the  harvest 
moon.  His  hospitable  attentions  were  brief, 
but  expressive,  being  confined  to  a  shake  of 
the  hand,  a  slap  on  the  shoulder,  a  loud  laugh 
and  a  pressing  invitation  to  "fall  to,  and  help 
themselves." 

And  now  the  sound  of  the  music  from  the 
common  room,  or  hall,  summoned  to  the 
dance.  The  musician  was  an  old  grayheaded 
negro,  who  had  been  the  itinerant  orchestra 
of  the  neighborhood  for  more  than  half  a  cen- 
tury. His  instrument  was  as  old  and  bat- 
tered as  himself.  The  greater  part  of  the  time 
he  scraped  on  two  or  three  strings,  accompany- 
ing every  movement  of  the  bow  with  a  mo- 
tion of  the  head;  bowing  almost  to  the  ground, 

08 


and  stamping  with  his  foot  whenever  a  fresh 
couple  were  to  start. 

Ichabod  prided  himself  upon  his  dancing 
as  much  as  upon  his  vocal  powers.  Not  a 
limp,  not  a  fibre  about  him  was  idle;  and  to 
have  seen  his  loosely  hung  frame  in  full  mo- 
tion, and  clattering  about  the  room,  you  would 
have  thought  Saint  Vitus  himself,  that  bless- 
ed patron  of  the  dance,  was  figuring  before 
you  in  person.  He  was  the  admiration  of  all 
the  negroes;  who,  having  gathered,  of  all 
ages  and  sizes,  from  the  farm  and  the  neigh- 
borhood, stood  forming  a  pyramid  of  shin- 
ing black  faces  at  every  door  and  window, 
gazing  with  delight  at  the  scene,  rolling  their 
white  eyeballs,  and  showing  grinning  rows 
of  ivory  from  ear  to  ear.  How  could  the 
flogger  of  urchins  be  otherwise  than  animated 
and  joyous?  The  lady  of  his  heart  was  his 
partner  in  the  dance,  and  smiling  graciously 
in  reply  to  all  his  amorous  oglings;  while  Brom 
Bones,  sorely  smitten  with  love  and  jealousy, 
sat  brooding  by  himself  in  one  corner. 

When  the  dance  was  at  an  end,  Ichabod 
was  attracted  to  a  knot  of  the  sager  folks, 
who,  with  old  Van  Tassel,  sat  smoking  at  one 
end  of  the  piazza,  gossiping  over  former  times, 
and  drawing  out  long  stories  about  the  war. 

This  neighborhood,  at  the  time  of  which  I 


am  speaking,  was  one  of  those  highly-favored 
places  which  abound  with  chronicle  and  great 
men.  The  British  and  American  line  had  run 
near  it  during  the  war;  it  had,  therefore, 
been  the  scene  of  marauding,  and  infested 
with  refugees,  cowboys,  and  all  kinds  of  bor- 
der chivalry.  Just  sufficient  time  had  elapsed 
to  enable  each  story-teller  to  dress  up  his  tale 
with  a  little  becoming  fiction,  and  in  the  in- 
distinctness of  his  recollections,  to  make  him- 
self the  hero  of  every  exploit. 

There  was  the  story  of  Doffue  Martling,  a 
large  blue-bearded  Dutchman,  who  had  near- 
ly taken  a  British  frigate  with  an  old  iron 
nine-pounder  from  a  mud  breastwork,  only 
that  his  gun  burst  at  the  sixth  discharge.  And 
there  was  an  old  gentleman  who  shall  be  name- 
less, being  too  rich  a  mynheer  to  be  lightly 
mentioned,  who,  in  the  battle  of  Whiteplains, 
being  an  excellent  master  of  defence,  parried 
a  musket  ball  with  a  small  sword,  insomuch 
that  he  absolutely  felt  it  whiz  round  the  blade, 
and  glance  off  at  the  hilt:  in  proof  of  which, 
he  was  ready  at  any  time  to  show  the  sword, 
with  the  hilt  a  little  bent.  There  were  sever- 
al more  that  had  been  equally  great  in  the 
field,  not  one  of  whom  but  was  persuaded 
that  he  had  a  considerable  hand  in  bringing 
the   war  to  a  happy  termination. 

70 


But  all  these  were  nothing  to  the  tales  of 
ghosts  and  apparitions  that  succeeded.  The 
neighborhood  is  rich  in  legendary  treasures 
of  the  kind.  Local  tales  and  superstitions 
thrive  best  in  these  sheltered  long-settled  re- 
treats; but  are  trampled  under  foot  by  the 
shifting  throng  that  forms  the  population  of 
most  of  our  country  places.  Besides,  there 
is  no  encouragement  for  ghosts  in  most  of  our 
villages,  for  they  have  scarcely  had  time  to 
finish  their  first  nap,  and  turn  themselves  in 
their  graves,  before  their  surviving  friends 
have  travelled  away  from  the  nieghborhood; 
so  that  when  they  turn  out  at  night  to  walk 
their  rounds,  they  have  no  acquaintance  left 
to  call  upon.  This  is  perhaps  the  reason  why 
we  so  seldom  hear  of  ghosts  except  in  our  long- 
established  Dutch  communities. 

The  immediate  cause,  however,  of  the  prev- 
alence of  supernatural  stories  in  these  parts 
was  doubtless  owing  to  the  vicinity  of  Sleepy 
Hollow.  There  was  a  contagion  in  the  very 
air  that  blew  from  that  haunted  region; 
breathed  forth  an  atmosphere  of  dreams  and 
fancies  infecting  all  the  land.  Several  of  the 
Sleepy  Hollow  people  were  present  at  Van 
Tassel's,  and,  as  usual,  were  doling  out  their 
wild  and  wonderful  legends.  Many  dismal  tales 
were  told  about  funeral  trains,  and  mourning 

71 


cries  and  wailings  heard  and  seen  about 
the  great  tree  where  the  unfortunate  Major 
Andre  was  taken,  and  which  stood  in  the 
neighborhood.  Some  mention  was  made  also 
of  the  woman  in  white,  that  haunted  the  dark 
glen  at  Raven  Rock,  and  was  often  heard  to 
shriek  on  winter  nights  before  a  storm,  hav- 
ing perished  there  in  the  snow.  The  chief 
part  of  the  stories,  however,  turned  upon  the 
favorite  specter  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  the  head- 
less horseman,  who  had  been  heard  several 
times  of  late,  patroling  the  country;  and,  it 
was  said,  tethered  his  horse  nightly  among  the 
graves  in  the  church-yard. 

The  sequestered  situation  of  this  church 
seems  always  to  have  made  it  a  favorite  haunt 
of  troubled  spirits.  It  stands  on  a  knoll, 
surrounded  by  locust-trees  and  lofty  elms, 
from  among  which  its  decent  whitewashed 
walls  shine  modestly  forth,  like  Christian 
purity  beaming  through  the  shades  of  retire- 
ment. A  gentle  slope  descends  from  it  to  a 
silver  sheet  of  water,  bordered  by  high  trees, 
between  which,  peeps  may  be  caught  at  the 
blue  hills  of  the  Hudson.  To  look  upon  its 
grass-grown  yard,  where  the  sunbeams  seem 
to  sleep  so  quietly,  one  would  think  that  there 
at  least  the  dead  might  rest  in  peace.  On  one 
side  of  the  church  extends  a  wide  woody  dell, 

72 


along  which  raves  a  large  brook  among  brok- 
en rocks  and  trunks  of  fallen  trees.  Over  a 
deep  black  part  of  the  stream,  not  far  from 
the  church,  was  formerly  thrown  a  wooden 
bridge;  the  road  that  led  to  it,  and  the  bridge 
itself,  were  thickly  shaded  by  overhanging 
trees,  which  cast  a  gloom  about  it,  even  in  the 
daytime;  but  occasioned  a  fearful  darkness 
at  night.  This  was  one  of  the  favorite  haunts 
of  the  headless  horseman;  and  the  place 
where  he  was  most  frequently  encountered. 
The  tale  was  told  of  old  Brouwer,  a  most  heret- 
ical disbeliever  in  ghosts,  how  he  met  the  horse- 
man returning  from  his  foray  into  Sleepy 
Hollow,  and  was  obliged  to  get  up  behind  him; 
how  they  galloped  over  bush  and  brake,  over 
hill  and  swamp,  until  they  reached  the  bridge; 
when  the  horseman  suddenly  turned  into  a 
skeleton,  threw  old  Brouwer  into  the  brook, 
and  sprang  away  over  the  tree-tops  with  a 
clap  of  thunder. 

This  story  was  immediately  matched  by 
thrice  marvelous  adventure  of  Brom  Bones, 
who  made  light  of  the  galloping  Hessian  as  an 
arrant  jockey.  He  affirmed  that,  on  return- 
ing one  night  from  the  neighboring  village  of 
Sing  Sing,  he  had  been  overtaken  by  this 
midnight  trooper;  that  he  had  offered  to  race 
with  him  for  a   bowl  of  punch,   and  should 

73 


have  won  it  too,  for  Daredevil  beat  the  gob- 
lin horse  all  hollow,  but  just  as  they  came  to 
the  church  bridge,  the  Hessian  bolted,  and 
vanished  in  a  flash  of  fire. 

All  these  tales,  told  in  that  drowsy  under- 
tone with  which  men  talk  in  the  dark,  the 
countenances  of  the  listeners  only  now  and 
then  receiving  a  casual  gleam  from  the  glare 
of  a  pipe,  sank  deep  in  the  mind  of  Ichabod. 
He  repaid  them  in  kind  with  large  extracts 
from  his  invaluable  author,  Cotton  Mather, 
and  added  many  marvelous  events  that  had 
taken  place  in  his  native  State  of  Connecti- 
cut, and  fearful  sights  which  he  had  seen  in 
his  nightly  walks  about  Sleepy  Hollow. 

The  revel  now  gradually  broke  up.  The 
old  farmers  gathered  together  their  families 
in  their  wagons,  and  were  heard  for  some 
time  rattling  along  the  hollow  roads,  and  over 
the  distant  hills.  Some  of  the  damsels  mount- 
ed on  pillions  behind  their  favorite  swains, 
and  their  light-hearted  laughter,  mingling 
with  the  clatter  of  hoofs,  echoed  along  the 
silent  woodlands,  sounding  fainter  and  fainter 
until  they  gradually  died  away — and  the  late 
scene  of  noise  and  frolic  was  all  silent  and  de- 
serted. Ichabod  only  lingered  behind,  ac- 
cording to  the  custom  of  country  lovers,  to 
have    a    tete-a-tete    with    the   heiress,    fully 

74 


convinced  that  he  was  now  on  the  high  road 
to  success. 

Without  looking  to  the  right  or  left  to  no- 
tice the  scene  of  rural  wealth,  on  which  he  had 
so  often  gloated,  he  went  straight  to  the  stable, 
and  with  several  hearty  cuffs  and  kicks,  roused 
his  steed  most  uncourteously  from  the  com- 
fortable quarters  in  which  he  was  soundly 
sleeping,  dreaming  of  mountains  of  corn  and 
oats,  and  whole  valleys  of  timothy  and  clover. 

It  was  the  very  witching  time  of  night  that 
Ichabod,  heavy-hearted  and  crest-fallen,  pur- 
sued his  travel  homewards,  along  the  sides  of 
the  lofty  hills  which  rise  above  Tarrytown, 
and  which  he  had  traversed  so  cheerily  in  the 
afternoon.  The  hour  was  as  dismal  as  him- 
self. Far  below  him,  the  Tappan  Zee  spread 
its  dusky  and  indistinct  waste  of  waters,  with 
here  and  there  the  tall  mast  of  a  sloop,  riding 
quietly  at  anchor  under  the  land.  In  the 
dead  hush  of  midnight,  he  could  even  hear  the 
barking  of  the  watchdog  from  the  opposite 
shore  of  the  Hudson;  but  it  was  so  vague  and 
faint  as  only  to  give  an  idea  of  his  distance 
from  this  faithful  companion  of  man.  Now 
and  then,  too,  the  long-drawn  crowing  of  a 
cock,  accidentally  awakened,  would  sound 
far,  far  off,  from  some  farmhouse  away  among 
the  hills — but  it  was  like  a  dreaming  sound  in 

75 


his  ear.  No  signs  of  life  occurred  near  him, 
but  occasionally  the  melancholy  chirp  of  a 
cricket,  or  perhaps  the  gutteral  twang  of  a 
bull-frog,  from  a  neighboring  marsh,  as  if 
sleeping  uncomfortably,  and  turning  sudden- 
ly in  his  bed. 

All  the  stories  of  ghosts  and  goblins  that 
he  had  heard  in  the  afternoon,  now  came  crowd- 
ing upon  his  recollection.  The  night  grew 
darker  and  darker;  the  stars  seemed  to  sink 
deeper  in  the  sky,  and  driving  clouds  occasion- 
ally hid  them  from  his  sight.  He  had  never 
felt  so  lonely  and  dismal.  He  was,  moreover, 
approaching  the  very  place  where  many  of 
the  scenes  of  the  ghost  stories  had  been  laid. 
In  the  centre  of  the  road  stood  an  enormous 
tulip  tree,  which  towered  like  a  giant  above 
all  the  other  trees  of  the  neighborhood,  and 
formed  a  kind  of  landmark.  Its  limbs  were 
gnarled,  and  fantastic,  large  enough  to  form 
trunks  for  ordinary  trees,  twisting  down  al- 
most to  the  earth,  and  rising  again  into  the 
air.  It  was  connected  with  the  tragical  story 
of  the  unfortunate  Andre,  who  had  been  tak- 
en prisoner  hard  by;  and  was  universally 
known  by  the  name  of  Major  Andre's  tree. 
The  common  people  regarded  it  with  mixture 
of  respect  and  superstition,  partly  out  of 
sympathy  for  the  fate  of  its  ill-starred  name- 

76 


sake,  and  partly  from  the  tales  of  strange 
sights  and  doleful  lamentations  told  concern- 
ing it. 

As  Ichabod  approached  this  fearful  tree, 
he  began  to  whistle:  he  thought  his  whistle 
was  answered — it  was  but  a  blast  sweeping 
sharply  through  the  dry  branches.  As  he 
approached  a  little  nearer,  he  thought  he  saw 
something  white,  hanging  in  the  midst  of  the 
tree — he  paused  and  ceased  whistling;  but 
on  looking  more  narrowly,  perceived  that  it 
was  a  place  where  the  tree  had  been  scathed 
by  lightning,  and  the  white  wood  laid  bare. 
Suddenly  he  heard  a  groan — his  teeth  chattered 
and  his  knees  smote  against  the  saddle:  it 
was  but  the  rubbing  of  one  huge  bough  upon 
another,  as  they  were  swayed  about  by  the 
breeze.  He  passed  the  tree  in  safety,  but 
new  perils  lay  before  him. 

The  denouement  and  catastrophe  are  fully 
described  on  a  following  page  (147)  where  Brom 
Bones  threw  the  fatal  pumpkin  that  eventful 
night. 


77 


Rip  Van  Winkle 

Washington  Irving  now  delights  us  with 
his  story  of  Rip  Van  Winkle 

The  following  tale  was  found  among  the 
papers  of  the  late  Diedrich  Knickerbocker, 
an  old  gentleman  of  New  York,  who  was  very 
curious  in  the  Dutch  history  of  the  province, 
and  the  manners  of  the  descendants  from  its 
primitive  settlers.  His  historical  researches, 
however,  did  not  lie  so  much  among  books  as 
among  men;  for  the  former  are  lamentably 
scanty  on  his  favorite  topics;  whereas  he 
found  the  old  burgers,  and  still  more  their 
wives,  rich  in  that  legendary  lore,  so  invaluable 
to  true  history.  Whenever,  therefore,  he 
happened  upon  a  genuine  Dutch  family, 
snugly  shut  up  in  its  low-roofed  farmhouse, 
under  a  spreading  sycamore,  he  looked  upon 
it  as  a  little  clasped  volume  of  black  letter, 
and  studied  it  with  the  zeal   of  a  bookworm. 

The  result  of  all  these  researches  was  a 
history  of  the  province  during  the  reign   of 

78 


the  Dutch  governors,  which  he  published 
some  years  since.  There  have  been  various 
opinions  as  to  the  literary  character  of  his 
work,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  it  is  not  a  whit 
better  than  it  should  be.  Its  chief  merit  is 
its  scrupulous  accuracy,  which  indeed  was  a 
little  questioned  on  its  first  appearance,  but 
has  since  been  completely  established;  and 
it  is  now  admitted  into  all  historical  collec- 
tions, as  a  book  of  unquestionable  authority. 
Whoever  has  made  a  voyage  up  the  Hudson 
must  remember  the  Kaatskill  mountains. 
They  are  a  dismembered  branch  of  the  great 
Appalachian  family,  and  are  seen  away  to  the 
west  of  the  river,  swelling  up  to  a  noble  height, 
and  lording  it  over  the  surrounding  country. 
Every  change  of  season,  every  change  of  weath- 
er, indeed,  every  hour  of  the  day,  produces  some 
change  in  the  magical  hues  and  shapes  of 
these  mountains,  and  they  are  regarded  by 
all  the  good  wives,  far  and  near,  as  perfect 
barometers.  When  the  weather  is  fair  and 
settled,  they  are  clothed  in  blue  and  purple, 
and  print  their  bold  outlines  on  the  clear  even- 
ing sky;  but,  sometimes,  when  the  rest  of 
the  landscape  is  cloudless,  they  will  gather  a 
hood  of  gray  vapors  about  their  summits, 
which,  in  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  will 
glow  and  light  up  like  a  crown  of  glory. 

79 


At  the  foot  of  these  fairy  mountains,  the 
voyager  may  have  descried  the  light  smoke 
curling  up  from  a  village,  whose  shingle-roofs 
gleam  among  the  trees,  just  where  the  blue 
tints  of  the  upland  melt  away  into  the  fresh 
green  of  the  nearer  landscape.  It  is  a  little 
village  of  great  antiquity,  having  been  found- 
ed by  some  of  the  Dutch  colonists,  in  the  early 
times  of  the  province,  just  about  the  beginning 
of  the  government  of  the  good  Peter  Stuyve- 
sant  (may  he  rest  in  peace!),  and  there  were 
some  of  the  houses  of  the  original  settlers 
standing  within  a  few  years,  built  of  small 
yellow  bricks  brouight  from  Holland,  having 
latticed  windows  and  gable  fronts,  surmounted 
with  weathercocks. 

In  the  same  village,  and  in  one  of  these 
very  houses  (which,  to  tell  the  precise  truth 
was  sadly  time  worn  and  weatherbeaten) , 
there  lived  many  years  since,  while  the  country 
was  yet  a  province  of  Great  Britain,  a  simple, 
good-natured  fellow  of  the  name  of  Rip  Van 
Winkle.  He  was  a  descendant  of  the  Van 
Winkles  who  figured  so  gallantly  in  the  chiv- 
alrous days  of  Peter  Stuyvesant,  and  accom- 
panied him  to  the  siege  of  Fort  Christina. 
I  have  observed  that  he  was  a  simple  good- 
natured  man;  he  was,  moreover,  a  kind  neigh- 
bor,   and   an    obedient    hen-pecked   husband. 

80 


Indeed,  to  the  latter  circumstance  might  be 
owing  that  meekness  of  spirit  which  gained 
him  such  universal  popularity;  for  those  men 
are  most  apt  to  be  obsequious  and  conciliat- 
ing abroad,  who  are  under  the  discipline  of 
shrews  at  home.  Their  tempers,  doubtless, 
are  rendered  pliant  and  malleable  in  the  fiery 
furnace  of  domestic  tribulation;  and  a  cur- 
tain lecture  is  worth  all  the  sermons  in  the 
world  for  teaching  the  virtues  of  patience  and 
long-suffering.  A  termagant  wife  may,  there- 
fore, in  some  respects,  be  considered  a  toler- 
able blessing;  and  if  so,  Rip  Van  Winkle  was 
thrice  blessed. 

Certain  it  is,  that  he  was  a  great  favorite 
among  all  the  good  wives  of  the  village,  who 
as  usual,  with  the  amiable  sex,  took  his  part 
in  all  family  squabbles;  and  never  failed, 
whenever  they  talked  those  matters  over  in 
their  evening  gossipings,  to  lay  all  the  blame 
on  Dame  Van  Winkle.  The  children  of  the 
village,  too,  would  shout  with  joy  whenever 
he  approached.  He  assisted  at  their  sports, 
made  their  playthings,  taught  them  to  fly 
kites  and  shoot  marbles,  and  told  them  long 
stories  of  ghosts,  witches,  and  Indians.  When- 
ever he  went  dodging  about  the  village,  he 
was  surrounded  by  a  troop  of  them,  hanging 
on  his   skirts,    clambering   on    his    back,    and 

81 


playing  a  thousand  tricks  on  him  with  im- 
punity; and  not  a  dog  would  bark  at  him 
throughout  the  neighborhood. 

The  great  error  in  Rip's  composition  was 
an  insuperable  aversion  to  all  kinds  of  profit- 
able labor.  It  could  not  be  from  the  want  of 
assiduity  or  perseverance;  for  he  would  sit  on 
a  wet  rock,  with  rod  as  long  and  heavy  as  a 
Tartar's  lance,  and  fish  all  day  without  a 
murmur,  even  though  he  should  not  be  en- 
couraged by  a  single  nibble.  He  would  carry 
a  fowling-piece  on  his  shoulder  for  hours  to- 
gether, trudging  through  woods  and  swamps 
and  up  hill  and  down  dale,  to  shoot  a  few 
squirrels  or  wild  pigeons.  He  would  never 
refuse  to  assist  a  neighbor  even  in  the  rough- 
est toil,  and  was  a  foremost  man  at  all  country 
frolics  for  husking  Indian  corn,  or  building 
stone  fences;  the  women  of  the  village,  too, 
used  to  employ  him  to  run  their  errands,  and 
to  do  such  little  odd  jobs  as  their  less  obliging 
husbands  would  not  do  for  them.  In  a  word 
Rip  was  ready  to  attend  to  anybody's  busi- 
ness but  his  own;  but  as  to  doing  family  duty, 
and  keeping  his  farm  in  order,  he  found  it 
impossible. 

In  fact,  he  declared  it  was  of  no  use  to  work 
on  his  farm;  it  was  the  most  pestilent  little 
piece  of  ground  in  the  whole  country;  every  - 

82 


thing  about  it  went  wrong,  and  would  go 
wrong,  in  spite  of  him.  His  fences  were  con- 
tinually falling  to  pieces;  his  cow  would  either 
go  astray  or  get  among  the  cabbages;  weeds 
were  sure  to  grow  quicker  in  his  fields  than 
anywhere  else;  the  rain  always  made  a  point 
of  setting  in  just  as  he  had  some  outdoor  work 
to  do;  so  that  though  his  patrimonial  estate 
had  dwindled  away  under  his  management, 
acre  by  acre,  until  there  was  little  more  left 
than  a  mere  patch  of  Indian  corn  and  pota- 
toes, yet  it  was  the  worst  conditioned  farm 
in  the  neighborhood. 

Rip  Van  Winkle,  however,  was  one  of  those 
happy  mortals,  of  foolish,  well-oiled  disposi- 
tions, who  take  the  world  easy,  eat  white 
bread  or  brown,  whichever  can  be  got  with 
least  thought  or  trouble,  and  would  rather 
starve  on  a  penny  than  work  for  a  pound. 
If  left  to  himself,  he  would  have  whistled  life 
away  in  perfect  contentment;  but  his  wife 
kept  continually  dinning  in  his  ears  about 
his  idleness,  his  carelessness,  and  the  ruin  he 
was  bringing  on  his  family.  Morning,  noon 
and  night,  her  tongue  was  incessantly  going, 
and  everything  he  said  or  did  was  sure  to  pro- 
duce a  torrent  of  household  eloquence.  Rip 
had  but  one  way  of  replying  to  all  lectures  of 
the  kind,  and  that,  by  frequent  use,  had  grown 

83 


into  a  habit.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
shook  his  head,  cast  up  his  eyes,  but  said 
nothing.  This,  however,  always  provoked 
a  fresh  volley  from  his  wife;  so  that  he  was 
fain  to  draw  off  his  forces,  and  take  to  the 
outside  of  the  house — the  only  side  which, 
in  truth,  belongs  to  a  henpecked  husband. 

Rip's  sole  domestic  adherent  was  his  dog, 
Wolf,  who  was  as  much  henpecked  as  his 
master;  for  Dame  Van  Winkle  regarded  them 
as  companions  in  idleness,  and  even  looked 
upon  Wolf  with  an  evil  eye,  as  the  cause  of  his 
master's  going  so  often  astray.  True  it  is, 
in  all  points  of  spirit  befitting  an  honorable 
dog,  he  was  as  courageous  an  animal  as  ever 
scoured  the  woods — but  what  courage  can 
withstand  the  ever  during  and  all-besetting 
terrors  of  a  woman's  tongue?  The  moment 
Wolf  entered  the  house  his  crest  fell,  his  tail 
dropped  to  the  ground,  or  curled  between  his 
legs,  he  sneaked  about  with  a  gallows  air, 
casting  many  a  sidelong  glance  at  Dame  Van 
WTinkle,  and  at  the  least  flourish  of  a  broom- 
stick or  ladle,  he  would  fly  to  the  door  with 
yelping  precipitation. 

Times  grew  worse  and  worse  with  Rip  Van 
Winkle  as  years  of  matrimony  rolled  on;  a  tart 
temper  never  mellows  with  age,  and  a  sharp 
tongue   is   the   only   edged   tool   that    grows 

84 


keener  with  constant  use.  For  a  long  while  he 
used  to  console  himself,  when  driven  from 
home,  by  frequenting  a  kind  of  perpetual 
club  of  the  sages,  philosophers,  and  other  idle 
personages  of  the  village;  which  held  its  ses- 
sions on  a  bench  before  a  small  inn,  designated 
by  a  rubicund  portrait  of  His  Majesty  George 
the  Third.  Here  they  used  to  sit  in  the  shade 
through  a  long  lazy  summer's  day,  talking 
listlessly  over  village  gossip,  or  telling  endless 
sleepy  stories  about  nothing. 

From  even  this  stronghold  the  unlucky  Rip 
was  at  length  routed  by  his  termagant  wife, 
who  would  suddenly  break  in  upon  the  tran- 
quillity of  the  assemblage  and  call  the  members 
all  to  naught;  nor  was  that  august  personage, 
Nicholas  Vedder  himself,  sacred  from  the 
daring  tongue  of  this  terrible  virago,  who 
charged  him  outright  with  encouraging  her 
husband  in  habits  of  idleness. 

Poor  Rip  was  at  last  reduced  almost  to  des- 
pair; and  his  only  alternative,  to  escape  from 
the  labor  of  the  farm  and  clamor  of  his  wife, 
was  to  take  gun  in  hand  and  stroll  away  into 
the  woods.  Here  he  would  sometimes  seat 
himself  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  and  share  the  con- 
tents of  his  wallet  with  Wolf,  with  whom  he 
sympathized  as  a  fellow-sufferer  in  perse- 
cution.    "Poor   Wolf,"   he    would    say,   "thy 

85 


mistress  leads  thee  a  dog's  life  of  it;  but  never 
mind,  my  lad,  whilst  I  live  thou  shalt  never 
want  a  friend  to  stand  by  thee!"  Wolf  would 
wag  his  tail,  look  wistfully  in  his  master's  face, 
and  if  dogs  can  feel  pity  I  verily  believe  he  re- 
ciprocated the  sentiment  with  all  his  heart. 

In  a  long  ramble  of  the  kind  on  a  fine  autum- 
nal day,  Rip  had  unconsciously  scrambled  to 
one  of  the  highest  parts  of  the  Kaatskill  moun- 
tains. He  was  after  his  favorite  sport  of 
squirrel  shooting,  and  the  still  solitudes  had 
echoed  and  re-echoed  with  the  reports  of  his 
gun.  Panting  and  fatigued,  he  threw  him- 
self, late  in  the  afternoon,  on  a  green  knoll, 
covered  with  mountain  herbage,  that  crowned 
the  brow  of  a  precipice.  From  an  opening 
between  the  trees  he  could  overlook  all  the  low- 
er country  for  many  a  mile  of  rich  woodland. 
He  saw  at  a  distance  the  lordly  Hudson,  far, 
far  below  him,  moving  on  its  silent  but  majes- 
tic course,  with  the  reflection  of  a  purple 
cloud,  or  the  sail  of  a  lagging  bark,  here  and 
there  sleeping  on  its  glassy  bosom,  and  at  last 
losing  itself  in  the  blue  Highlands. 

On  the  other  side  he  looked  down  into  a 
deep  mountain  glen,  wild,  lonely,  and  shagged, 
the  bottom  filled  with  fragments  from  the 
impending  cliffs,  and  scarcely  lighted  by  the 
reflected  rays  of  the  setting  sun.     For  some 

86 


time  Rip  lay  musing  on  this  scene;  evening 
was  gradually  advancing;  the  mountains  be- 
gan to  throw  their  long  blue  shadows  over  the 
valleys;  he  saw  that  it  would  be  dark  long  be- 
fore he  could  reach  the  village,  and  he  heaved 
a  heavy  sign  when  he  thought  of  encounter- 
ing the  terrors  of  Dame  Van  Winkle. 

As  he  was  about  to  descend,  he  heard  a 
voice  from  a  distance,  hallooing,  "Rip  Van 
Winkle!  Rip  Van  Winkle!"  He  looked 
round,  but  could  see  nothing  but  a  crow  wing- 
ing its  solitary  flight  across  the  mountain.  He 
thought  his  fancy  must  have  deceived  him, 
and  turned  again  to  descend,  when  he  heard 
the  same  cry  ring  through  the  still  evening 
air:  "Rip  Van  Winkle!  Rip  Van  Winkle!"— 
at  the  same  time  Wolf  bristled  up  his  back, 
and  giving  a  low  growl,  skulked  to  his  master's 
side,  looking  fearfully  down  into  the  glen. 
Rip  now  felt  a  vague  apprehension  stealing 
over  him;  he  looked  anxiously  in  the  same 
direction,  and  perceived  a  strange  figure  slow- 
ly toiling  up  the  rocks,  and  bending  under  the 
weight  of  something  he  carried  on  his  back. 
He  was  surprised  to  see  any  human  being  in 
this  lonely  and  unfrequented  place,  but  sup- 
posing it  to  be  some  of  the  neighborhood  in 
need  of  his  assistance,  he  hastened  down  to 
yield    it. 

87 


On  nearer  approach  he  was  still  more  sur- 
prised at  the  singularity  of  the  stranger's 
appearance.  He  was  a  short,  square-built 
old  fellow,  with  thick  bushy  hair,  and  a  griz- 
zled beard.  His  dress  was  of  the  antique 
Dutch  fashion — a  cloth  jerkin  strapped  round 
the  waist — several  pair  of  breeches,  the  outer 
one  of  ample  volume,  decorated  with  rows  of 
buttons  down  the  sides,  and  bunches  at  the 
knees.  He  bore  on  his  shoulder  a  stout  keg, 
that  seemed  full  of  liquor,  and  made  signs  for 
Rip  to  approach  and  assist  him  with  the  load. 
Though  rather  shy  and  distrustful  of  this 
new  acquaintance,  Rip  complied  with  his 
usual  alacrity;  and  mutually  relieving  one 
another,  they  clambered  up  a  narrow  gully, 
apparently  the  dry  bed  of  a  mountain  torrent. 
As  they  ascended,  Rip  every  now  and  then 
heard  long  rolling  peals,  like  distant  thunder, 
that  seemed  to  issue  out  of  a  deep  ravine,  or 
rather  cleft,  between  lofty  rocks,  toward 
which  their  rugged  path  conducted.  He  paus- 
ed for  an  instant,  but  supposing  it  to  be  the 
muttering  of  one  of  those  transient  thunder- 
showers  which  often  take  place  in  mountain 
heights,  he  proceeded.  Passing  through  the 
ravine,  they  came  to  a  hollow,  like  a  small  am- 
phitheatre, surrounded  by  perpendicular  prec- 
ipices,  over  the   brinks   of   which   impending 

88 


trees  shot  their  branches,  so  that  you  only 
caught  glimpses  of  the  azure  sky  and  the 
bright  evening  cloud.  During  the  whole  time 
Rip  and  his  companion  had  labored  on  in  si- 
lence; for  though  the  former  marvelled  great- 
ly what  could  be  the  object  of  carrying  a  keg 
of  liquor  up  this  wild  mountain,  yet  there  was 
something  strange  and  incomprehensible  about 
the  unknown,  that  inspired  awe  and  checked 
familiarity. 

On  entering  the  amphitheatre,  new  objects 
of  wonder  presented  themselves.  On  a  level 
spot  in  the  centre  was  a  company  of  odd-look- 
ing personages  playing  at  nine-pins.  They 
were  dressed  in  a  quaint  outlandish  fashion; 
some  wore  short  doublets,  others  jerkins,  with 
long  knives  in  their  belts,  and  most  of  them 
had  enormous  breeches,  of  similar  style  with 
that  of  the  guide's.  Their  visages,  too,  were 
peculiar:  one  had  a  large  beard,  broad  face, 
and  small  piggish  eyes:  the  face  of  another 
seemed  to  consist  entirely  of  nose,  and  was 
surmounted  by  a  white  sugarloaf  hat  set  off 
with  a  little  red  cock's  tail.  They  all  had 
beards,  of  various  shapes  and  colors.  There 
was  one  who  seemed  to  be  the  commander.  He 
was  a  stout  old  gentleman,  with  a  weather- 
beaten  countenance;  he  wore  a  laced  doub- 
let, broad  belt  and  hanger,  high-crowned  hat 

89 


and  feather,  red  stockings,  and  high-heeled 
shoes,  with  roses  in  them.  The  whole  group 
reminded  Rip  of  the  figures  in  an  old  Flemish 
painting,  in  the  parlor  of  Dominie  Van  Shaick, 
the  village  parson,  and  which  had  been  brought 
over  from  Holland  at  the  time  of  the  settle- 
ment. 

What  seemed  particularly  odd  to  Rip  was, 
that  though  these  folks  were  evidently  amus- 
ing themselves,  yet  they  maintained  the  grav- 
est faces,  the  most  mysterious  silence,  and 
were,  withal,  the  most  melancholy  party  of 
pleasure  he  had  ever  witnessed.  Nothing  in- 
terrupted the  stillness  of  the  scene  but  the 
noise  of  the  balls,  which,  whenever  they  were 
rolled,  echoed  along  the  mountains  like  rum- 
bling peals  of  thunder. 

As  Rip  and  his  companion  approached  them 
they  suddenly  desisted  from  their  play,  and 
stared  at  him  with  such  fixed  statue-like 
gaze,  and  such  a  strange,  uncouth,  lack-lustre 
countenances,  that  his  heart  turned  within 
him,  and  his  knees  smote  together.  His 
companion  now  emptied  the  contents  of  the 
keg  into  large  flagons,  and  made  signs  to  him 
to  wait  upon  the  company.  He  obeyed  with 
fear  and  trembling;  they  quaffed  the  liquor 
in  profound  silence,  and  then  returned  to  their 
game. 

90 


By  degrees  Rip's  awe  and  apprehension 
subsided.  He  even  ventured,  when  no  eye 
was  fixed  upon  him,  to  taste  the  beverage, 
which  he  found  had  much  of  the  flavor  of  ex- 
cellent Hollands.  He  was  naturally  a  thirsty 
soul,  and  was  soon  tempted  to  repeat  the 
draught.  One  taste  provoked  another;  and 
he  reiterated  his  visits  to  the  flagon  so  often 
that  at  length  his  senses  were  overpowered, 
his  eyes  swam  in  his  head,  his  head  gradually 
declined,  and  he  fell  into  a  deep  sleep. 

On  waking,  he  found  himself  on  the  green 
knoll  when  he  had  first  seen  the  old  man  of  the 
glen.  He  rubbed  his  eyes — it  was  a  bright 
sunny  morning.  The  birds  were  hopping 
and  twittering  among  the  bushes,  and  the  eagle 
was  wheeling  aloft,  and  breasting  the  pure 
mountain  breeze.  "Surely,"  thought  Rip,  "I 
have  not  slept  here  all  night."  He  recalled 
the  occurrences  before  he  fell  asleep.  The 
strange  man  with  a  keg  of  liquor — the  mountain 
ravine — the  wild  retreat  among  the  rocks — 
the  woe-begone  party  at  nine-pins — the  flagon 
—"Oh!  that  flagon!  that  wicked  flagon!" 
thought  Rip — "what  excuse  shall  I  make  to 
Dame  Van  Winkle!" 

He  looked  round  for  his  gun,  but  in  place 
of  the  clean  well-oiled  fowling-piece,  he  found 
an    old    firelock    lying    by    him,    the    barrel 

91 


encrusted  with  rust,  the  lock  falling  off,  and 
the  slock  worm-eaten.  He  now  suspected  that 
the  grave  roysters  of  l  lie  mountain  bad  put  a 
trick  upon  him,  and,  having  dosed  him  with 
liquor,  had  robbed  him  of  his  gun.  Wolf, 
too,  had  disappeared,  but  he  might  have 
strayed  away  after  a  squirrel  or  partridge. 
He  whistled  after  him  and  shouted  his  name, 
but  all  in  vain;  the  echoes  repeated  his  whistle 
and  shout,  but  no  dog  was  to  be  seen. 

lie  determined  to  revisit  the  scene  of  the 
Inst  evening's  gambol,  and  it'  lie  met  with  any 
of  the  party,  to  demand  his  dog  and  gun.  As 
he  rose  to  walk,  lie  found  himself  stiff  in  the 
joints,  and  wanting  in  his  usual  activity. 
"These  mountain  beds  do  not  agree  with  me," 
thought  Rip,  "and  if  this  frolic  should  lay 
me  up  with  a  fit  of  the  rheumatism,  [shall 
have  a  blessed  time  with  Dame  Van  Winkle." 
With  some  difficulty  lie  got  down  into  the  glen : 
lie  found  the  gully  up  which  he  and  his  com- 
panion had  ascended  the  preceding  evening; 
but  to  liis  astonishment  a  mountain  stream 
was  now  foaming  down  it,  leaping  from  rock 
lo  rock,  and  filling  the  glen  with  babbling 
murmurs.  He,  however,  made  shift  to  scram- 
ble 1 1 1 >  its  sides,  working  his  toilsome  way 
through  thickets  of  birch,  sassafras,  and  witch 
hazel,  and  sometimes  tripped  up  or  cnlranglcd 

92 


by  the  wild  grapevines  that  twisted  their  coils 
or  tendrils  from  tree  to  tree,  and  spread  a  kind 
of  network  in  his  path.  y 

At  length  lie  reached  to  where  the  ravine 
had  opened  through  the  cliffs  to  the  amphi- 
theatre; but  no  traces  of  such  opening  re- 
mained. The  rocks  presented  a  high  im- 
penetrable wall  over  which  the  torrent  came 
tumbling  in  a  sheet  of  feathery  foam,  and  fell 
into  a  broad  deep  basin,  black  from  the  shad- 
ows of  the  surrounding  forest.  Here,  then, 
poor  Rip  was  brought  to  a  stand.  He  again 
called  and  whistled  after  his  dog;  he  was  only 
answered  by  the  cawing  of  a  flock  of  idle 
crows,  sporting  high  in  air  about  a  dry  tree 
that  overhung  a  sunny  precipice;  and  who, 
secure  in  their  elevation,  seemed  to  look 
down  and  scoff  at  the  poor  man's  perplexities. 
What  was  to  be  done?  the  morning  was  pass- 
ing away,  and  Rip  felt  famished  for  want  of 
his  breakfast.  lie  grieved  to  give  up  his  dog 
and  gun;  he  dreaded  to  meet  his  wife;  but 
il  would  not  do  to  starve  among  the  mountains. 
lie  shook  his  head,  shouldered  the  rusty  fire- 
lock,  and,  with  a  heart  full  of  trouble  and 
anxiety,  turned  his  steps  homeward. 

As  he  approached  the  village  he  met  a  num- 
ber of  people,  but  none  whom  he  knew,  which 
somewhat   surprised  him,  for  he  thought  him- 

93 


self  acquainted  with  every  one  in  the  country 
round.  Their  dress,  too,  was  of  a  different 
fashion  from  that  to  which  he  was  accustomed. 
They  all  stared  at  him  with  equal  marks  of 
surprise,  and  whenever  they  cast  their  eyes 
upon  him,  invariably  stroked  their  chins. 
The  constant  recurrence  of  this  gesture  in- 
duced Rip,  involuntarily,  to  do  the  same, 
when  to  his  astonishment,  he  found  his  beard 
had  grown  a  foot  long! 

He  had  now  entered  the  skirts  of  the  village. 
A  troop  of  strange  children  ran  at  his  heels, 
hooting  after  him,  and  pointing  at  his  gray 
beard.  The  dogs,  too,  not  one  of  which  he 
recognized  for  an  old  acquaintance,  barked  at 
him  as  he  passed. 

The  very  village  was  altered;  it  was  larger 
and  more  populous.  There  were  rows  of 
houses  which  he  had  never  seen  before,  and 
those  which  had  been  his  familiar  haunts  had 
disappeared.  Strange  names  were  over  the 
doors — strange  faces  at  the  windows — every- 
thing was  strange.  His  mind  now  misgave 
him;  he  began  to  doubt  whether  both  he  and 
the  world  around  him  were  not  bewitched. 
Surely  this  was  his  native  village,  which  he  had 
left  but  the  day  before.  There  stood  the 
Kaatskill  mountains — there  ran  the  silver 
Hudson  at  a  distance — there  was  every  hill 

94 


and  dale  precisely  as  it  had  always  been — Rip 
was  sorely  perplexed — "That  flagon  last  night," 
thought  he,  "has  addled  my  poor  head  sadly!" 

It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  he  found 
the  way  to  his  own  house,  which  he  approach- 
ed with  silent  awe,  expecting  every  moment 
to  hear  the  shrill  voice  of  Dame  Van  Winkle. 
He  found  the  house  gone  to  decay — the  roof 
fallen  in,  the  windows  shattered,  and  the  doors 
off  the  hinges.  A  half-starved  dog  that  looked 
like  Wolf  was  skulking  about.  Rip  called 
him  by  name,  but  the  cur  snarled,  showed  his 
teeth,  and  passed  on.  This  was  an  unkind 
cut  indeed — "My  very  dog,"  sighed  poor  Rip, 
"has  forgotten  me!" 

He  entered  the  house,  which,  to  tell  the 
truth,  Dame  Van  Winkle  had  always  kept  in 
neat  order.  It  was  empty,  forlorn,  and  ap- 
parently abandoned.  This  desolateness  over- 
came all  his  connubial  fears — he  called  loudly 
for  his  wife  and  children — the  lonely  chambers 
rang  for  a  moment  with  his  voice,  and  then 
all  again  was  silence. 

He  now  hurried  forth,  and  hastened  to  his 
old  resort,  the  village  inn — but  it  too  was 
gone.  A  large  rickety  wooden  building  stood 
in  its  place,  with  great  gaping  windows,  some 
of  them  broken  and  mended  with  old  hats  and 
petticoats,   and   over  the   door   was   painted, 

95 


"the  Union  Hotel,  by  Jonathan  Doolittle." 
Instead  of  the  great  tree  that  used  to  shelter 
the  quiet  little  Dutch  inn  of  yore,  there  now 
was  reared  a  tall  naked  pole,  with  something 
on  the  top  that  looked  like  a  red  night-cap, 
and  from  it  was  fluttering  a  flag,  on  which 
was  a  singular  assemblage  of  stars  and  stripes 
— all  this  was  strange  and  incomprehensible. 
He  recognized  on  the  sign,  however,  the  ruby 
face  of  King  George,  under  which  he  had 
smoked  so  many  a  peaceful  pipe;  but  even 
this  was  singularly  metamorphosed.  The  red 
coat  was  changed  for  one  of  blue  and  buff,  a 
sword  was  held  in  the  hand  instead  of  a  scep- 
tre, the  head  was  decorated  with  a  cocked  hat, 
and  underneath  was  painted  in  large  charac- 
ters, GENERAL  WASHINGTON. 

There  was,  as  usual,  a  crowd  of  folk  about 
the  door,  but  none  that  Rip  recollected.  The 
very  character  of  the  people  seemed  changed. 
There  was  a  busy,  bustling,  disputatious  tone 
about  it,  instead  of  the  accustomed  phlegm 
and  drowsy  tranquillity.  He  looked  in  vain 
for  the  sage  Nicholas  Vedder,  with  his  broad 
face,  double  chin,  and  fair  long  pipe,  uttering 
clouds  of  tobacco  smoke  instead  of  idle  speech- 
es; or  Van  Brummel,  the  schoolmaster,  doling 
forth  the  contents  of  an  ancient  newspaper. 
In  place  of  these,  a  lean,  bilious-looking  fel- 

96 


low,  with  his  pockets  full  of  handbills,  was 
haranguing  vehemently  about  rights  of  citi- 
zens— elections — members  of  congress — lib- 
erty— Bunker's  Hill — heroes  of  seventy-six — 
and  other  words,  which  were  a  perfect  Baby- 
lonish jargon  to  the  bewildered  Van  Winkle. 
The  appearance  of  Rip,  with  his  long  griz- 
zled beard,  his  rusty  fowling-piece,  his  uncouth 
dress,  and  an  army  of  women  and  children  at 
his  heels,  soon  attracted  the  attention  of  the 
tavern  politicians.  They  crowded  round  him 
eying  him  from  head  to  foot  with  great  curi- 
osity. The  orator  bustled  up  to  him,  and 
drawing  him  partly  aside,  inquired  "on  which 
side  he  voted?"  Rip  stared  in  vacant  stu- 
pidity. Another  short  but  busy  little  fellow 
pulled  him  by  the  arm,  and,  rising  on  tiptoe, 
inquired  in  his  ear,  "Whether  he  was  Federal 
or  Democrat ?"  Rip  was  equally  at  a  loss  to 
comprehend  the  question;  when  a  knowing, 
self-important  old  gentleman,  in  sharp  cocked 
hat,  made  his  way  through  the  crowd,  putting 
them  to  the  right  and  left  with  his  elbows  as 
he  passed  and  planting  himself  before  Van 
Winkle,  with  one  arm  a-kimbo,  the  other  rest- 
ing on  his  cane,  his  keen  eyes  and  sharp  hat 
penetrating,  as  it  were,  into  his  very  soul, 
demanded  in  an  austere  tone,  "what  brought 
him  to  the  election  with  a  gun  on  his  shoulder 

97 


and  a  mob  at  his  heels,  and  whether  he  meant 
to  breed  a  riot  in  the  village?" — "Alas!  gen- 
tlemen," cried  Rip,  somewhat  dismayed, "I  am 
a  poor  quiet  man,  a  native  of  the  place,  and 
a  loyal  subject  of  the  king,  God  bless  him!" 

Here  a  general  shout  burst  from  the  by- 
standers— "A  tory!  a  tory!  a  spy!  a  refugee! 
hustle  him!  away  with  him!"  It  was  with 
great  difficulty  that  the  self-important  man  in 
the  cocked  hat  restored  order;  and,  having  as- 
sumed a  tenfold  austerity  of  brow,  demanded 
again  of  the  unknown  culprit,  what  he  came 
there  for,  and  whom  he  was  seeking?  The 
poor  man  humbly  assured  him  that  he  meant 
no  harm,  but  merely  came  there  in  search  of 
some  of  his  neighbors,  who  used  to  keep  about 
the  tavern. 

"Well — who   are  they? — name   them." 

Rip  bethought  himself  a  moment,  and  in- 
quired, "Where's  Nicholas  Vedder?" 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  little  while,  when 
an  old  man  replied,  in  a  thin  piping  voice, 
"Nicholas  Vedder!  why,  he  is  dead  and  gone 
these  eighteen  years!  There  was  a  wooden 
tombstone  in  the  churchyard  that  used  to  tell 
all  about  him,  but  that's  rotten  and  gone  too." 

"Where's   Brom   Dutcher?" 

"Oh,  he  went  off  to  the  army  in  the  begin- 
ning of  the  war;  some  say  he  was  killed  at  the 


storming  of  Stony  Point — others  say  he  was 
drowned  in  a  squall  at  the  foot  of  Antony's 
Nose.  I  don't  know — he  never  came  back 
again." 

"Where's  Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster?" 

"He  went  off  to  the  war  too,  was  a  great 
militia  general,  and  is  now  in  congress." 

Rip's  heart  died  away  at  hearing  of  these 
sad  changes  in  his  home  and  friends,  and  find- 
ing himself  thus  alone  in  the  world.  Every 
answer  puzzled  him  too,  by  treating  of  such 
enormous  lapses  of  time,  and  of  matters  which 
he  could  not  understand  war — congress — 
Stony  Point; — he  had  no  courage  to  ask  after 
any  more  friends,  but  cried  out  in  despair, 
"Does  nobody  here  know  Rip  Van  Winkle?" 

"Oh,  Rip  Van  Winkle!"  exclaimed  two  or 
three,  "Oh,  to  be  sure!  that's  Rip  Van  Winkle 
yonder,  leaning  against  the  tree." 

Rip  looked,  and  beheld  a  precise  counter- 
part of  himself,  as  he  we.it  up  the  mountain 
apparently  as  lazy,  and  certainly  as  ragged. 
The  poor  fellow  was  now  completely  con- 
founded. He  doubted  his  own  identity,  and 
whether  he  was  himself  or  another  man.  In 
the  midst  of  his  bewilderment,  the  man  in  the 
cocked  hat  demanded  who  he  was,  arid  what 
was  his  name? 

"God  knows,"    exclaimed  he,  at  his   wits' 

99 


end;  "I'm  not  myself — I'm  somebody  else — 
that's  me  yonder — no — that's  somebody  else 
got  into  my  shoes — I  was  myself  last  night, 
but  I  fell  asleep  on  the  mountain,  and  they've 
changed  my  gun,  and  everything's  changed, 
and  I  can't  tell  what's  my  name,  or  who  I  am!" 

The  bystanders  began  now  to  look  at  each 
other,  nod,  wink  significantly,  and  tap  their 
fingers  against  their  foreheads.  There  was 
a  whisper,  also,  about  securing  the  gun,  and 
keeping  the  old  fellow  from  doing  mischief, 
at  the  very  suggestion  of  which  the  self-impor- 
tant man  in  the  cocked  hat  retired  with  some 
precipitation.  At  this  critical  moment  a  fresh 
comely  woman  pressed  through  the  throng  to 
get  a  peek  at  the  gray-bearded  man.  She  had 
a  chubby  child  in  her  arms,  which,  frightened 
at  his  looks,  began  to  cry.  "Hush,  Rip," 
cried  she,  "hush,  you  little  fool;  the  old  man 
won't  hurt  you."  The  name  of  the  child, 
the  air  of  the  mother,  the  tone  of  her  voice, 
all  awakened  a  train  of  recollections  in  his 
mind.  "  What  is  your  name,  my  good  woman ?' 
asked  he. 

"Judith  Gardenier." 

"And  your  father's  name?" 

"Ah,  poor  man,  Rip  Van  Winkle  was  his 
name,  but  it's  twenty  years  since  he  went 
away  from  home  with  his  gun,  and  never  has 

100 


been  heard  of  since — his  dog  came  home  with- 
out him;  but  whether  he  shot  himself,  or  was 
carried  away  by  the  Indians,  nobody  can  tell. 
I  was  then  but  a  little  girl." 

Rip  had  but  one  question  more  to  ask;  but 
he  put  it  with  a  faltering  voice: 

"Where's   your  mother?" 

"Oh,  she  too  had  died  but  a  short  time  since; 
she  broke  a  blood-vessel  in  a  fit  of  passion  at 
a  New  England  peddler." 

There  was  a  drop  of  comfort,  at  least,  in  this 
intelligence.  The  honest  man  could  contain 
himself  no  longer.  He  caught  his  daughter  and 
her  child  in  his  arms.  "I  am  your  father!" 
cried  he — "  Young  Rip  Van  Winkle  once — 
old  Rip  Van  Winkle  now! — Does  nobody  know 
poor  Rip  Van  Winkle?" 

All  stood  amazed,  until  an  old  woman,  totter- 
ing out  from  among  the  crowd,  put  her  hand 
to  her  brow,  and  peering  under  it  in  his  face 
for  a  moment,  exclaimed,  "Sure  enough!  it 
is  Rip  Van  Winkle — it  is  himself!  Welcome 
home  again,  old  neighbor — Why,  where  have 
you  been  these  twenty  long  years?" 

Rip's  story  was  soon  told,  for  the  whole 
twenty  years  had  been  to  him  but  as  one 
night.  The  neighbors  stared  when  they  heard 
it;  some  were  seen  to  wink  at  each  other,  and 
put   their   tongues   in   their   cheeks:  and   the 

101 


self-important  man  in  the  cocked  hat,  who,  when 
the  alarm  was  over,  had  returned  to  the  field, 
screwed  down  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  and 
shook  his  head — upon  which  there  was  a  gen- 
eral shaking  of  the  head  throughout  the  assem- 
blage. 

It  was  determined,  however,  to  take  the 
opinion  of  old  Peter  Vanderdonk,  who  was 
seen  slowly  advancing  up  the  road.  He  was 
a  descendant  of  the  historian  of  that  name, 
who  wrote  one  of  the  earliest  accounts  of  the 
province.  Peter  was  the  most  ancient  in- 
habitant of  the  village,  and  well  versed  in  all 
the  wonderful  events  and  traditions  of  the 
neighborhood.  He  recollected  Rip  at  once, 
and  corroborated  his  story  in  the  most  satis- 
factory manner.  He  assured  the  company 
that  it  was  a  fact,  handed  down  from  his  an- 
cestor the  historian,  that  the  Kaatskill  moun- 
tains had  always  been  haunted  by  strange  be- 
ings. That  it  was  affirmed  that  the  great 
Hendrick  Hudson,  the  first  discoverer  of  the 
river  and  country,  kept  a  kind  of  vigil  there 
every  twenty  years,  with  his  crew  of  the  Half- 
moon;  being  permitted  in  this  way  to  revisit 
the  scenes  of  his  enterprise,  and  keep  a  guard- 
ian eye  upon  the  river,  and  the  great  city 
called  by  his  name.  That  his  father  had 
once  seen  them    in  their  old    Dutch  dresses 

102 


playing  at  nine-pins  in  a  hollow  of  the  moun- 
tains; and  that  he  himself  had  heard,  one  sum- 
mer afternoon,  the  sound  of  their  balls,  like 
distant  peals  of  thunder. 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  the  company 
broke  up,  and  returned  to  the  more  important 
concerns  of  the  election.  Rip's  daughter  took 
him  home  to  live  with  her;  she  had  a  snug, 
well-furnished  house,  and  a  stout  cheery  farmer 
for  a  husband,  whom  Rip  recollected  for  one 
of  the  urchins  that  used  to  climb  upon  his 
back.  As  to  Rip's  son  and  heir,  who  was  the 
ditto  of  himself,  seen  leaning  against  the  tree, 
he  was  employed  to  work  on  the  farm;  but 
evinced  an  hereditary  disposition  to  attend 
to  any  thing  else  but  his  business. 

Rip  now  resumed  his  old  walks  and  habits; 
he  soon  found  many  of  his  former  cronies, 
though  all  rather  the  worse  for  wear  and  tear 
of  time;  and  preferred  making  friends  among 
the  rising  generation,  with  whom  he  soon 
grew  into  great  favor. 

Having  nothing  to  do  at  home,  and  being 
arrived  at  that  happy  age  when  a  man  can  be 
idle  with  impunity,  he  took  his  place  once 
more  on  the  bench  at  the  inn  door,  and  was 
reverenced  as  one  of  the  patriarchs  of  the  vil- 
lage, and  a  chronicle  of  the  old  times  *  'before 
the  war."     It  was  some  time  before  he  could 

103 


get  into  the  regular  track  of  gossip  or  could  be 
made  to  comprehend  the  strange  events  that  had 
taken  place  during  his  torpor.  How  that  there 
had  been  a  revolutionary  war — that  the  coun- 
try had  thrown  off  the  yoke  of  old  England — 
and  that,  instead  of  being  a  subject  of  his 
Majesty  George  the  Third,  he  was  now  a  free 
citizen  of  the  United  States.  Rip,  in  fact, 
was  no  politician ;  the  changes  of  states  and 
empires  made  but  little  impression  on  him; 
but  there  was  one  species  of  despotism  under 
which  he  had  long  groaned,  and  that  was — 
petticoat  government.  Happily  that  was  at 
an  end;  he  had  got  his  neck  out  of  the  yoke 
of  matrimony,  and  could  go  in  and  out  when- 
ever he  pleased,  without  dreading  the  tyranny 
of  Dame  Van  Winkle.  Whenever  her  name 
was  mentioned,  however,  he  shook  his  head, 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  cast  up  his  eyes; 
which  might  pass  either  for  an  expression  of 
resignation  to  his  fate,  or  joy  at  his  deliverance. 
He  used  to  tell  his  story  to  every  stranger 
that  arrived  at  Mr.  Doolittle's  hotel.  He  was 
observed,  at  first,  to  vary  on  some  points  every 
time  he  told  it,  which  was,  doubtless,  owing 
to  his  having  so  recently  awaked.  It  at  last 
settled  down  precisely  to  the  tale  I  have  re- 
lated, and  not  a  man,  woman,  or  child  in  the 
neighborhood,  but  knew  it  by  heart.     Some 

104 


always  pretended  to  doubt  the  reality  of  it, 
and  insisted  that  Rip  had  been  out  of  his  head, 
and  that  this  was  one  point  on  which  he  al- 
ways remained  flighty.  The  old  Dutch  in- 
habitants, however,  almost  universally  gave 
it  full  credit.  Even  to  this  day  they  never 
hear  a  thunderstorm  of  a  summer  afternoon 
about  the  Kaatskill,  but  they  say  Hendrick 
Hudson  and  his  crew  are  at  their  game  of 
nine-pins  in  the  neighborhood,  when  life  hangs 
heavy  on  their  hands,  that  they  might  have  a 
quieting  draught  out  of  Rip  Van  Winkle's 
flagon. 

The  story  of  Rip  Van  Winkle  may  seem  in- 
credible to  many,  but  nevertheless  I  give  it 
my  full  belief,  for  I  know  the  vicinity  of  our 
old  Dutch  settlements  to  have  been  very  sub- 
ject to  marvelous  events  and  appearances. 
Indeed,  I  have  heard  many  stranger  stories 
than  this,  in  the  villages  along  the  Hudson; 
all  of  which  were  too  well  authenticated  to 
admit  of  a  doubt.  I  have  even  talked  with 
Rip  Van  Winkle  myself,  who,  when  last  I 
saw  him,  was  a  venerable  old  man,  and  so  per- 
fectly rational  and  consistent  on  every  other 
point,  that  I  think  no  conscientious  person 
could  refuse  to  take  this  into  the  bargain; 
nay,  I  have  seen  a  certificate  on  the  subject 
taken    before    a    country    justice    and    signed 

105 


with  a  cross,  in  the  justice's  own  handwriting. 
The  story,  therefore,  is  beyond  the  possibility 
of  doubt. 

The  Kaatsberg,  or  Catskill  mountains,  have 
always  been  a  region  full  of  fable.  The  In- 
dians considered  them  the  abode  of  spirits, 
who  influenced  the  weather,  spreading  sun- 
shine or  clouds  over  the  landscape,  and  send- 
ing good  or  bad  hunting  seasons.  They  were 
ruled  by  an  old  squaw  spirit,  said  to  be  their 
mother.  She  dwelt  on  the  highest  peak  of 
the  Catskill,  and  had  charge  of  the  doors  of 
day  and  night  to  open  and  shut  them  at  the 
proper  hour.  She  hung  up  the  new  moons  in 
the  skies,  and  cut  up  the  old  ones  into  stars. 
In  times  of  drought,  if  properly  propitiated, 
she  would  spin  light  summer  clouds  out  of 
cobwebs  and  morning  dew,  and  send  them  off 
from  the  crest  of  the  mountain,  flake  after 
flake,  like  flakes  of  carded  cotton,  to  float  in 
the  air;  until,  dissolved  by  the  heat  of  the 
sun,  they  would  fall  in  gentle  showers,  caus- 
ing the  grass  to  spring,  the  fruits  to  ripen,  and 
the  corn  to  grow  an  inch  an  hour.  If  dis- 
pleased, however,  she  would  brew  up  clouds 
black  as  ink,  sitting  in  the  midst  of  them  like 
a  bottle-bellied  spider  in  the  midst  of  its  web; 
and  when  these  clouds  broke,  woe  betide  the 
valleys! 

106 


In  old  times,  say  the  Indian  traditions, 
there  was  a  kind  of  Manitou  or  Spirit,  who 
kept  about  the  wildest  'recesses  of  the  Cats- 
kill  mountains,  and  took  a  mischievous  pleas- 
ure in  wreaking  all  kinds  of  evils  and  vexa- 
tions upon  the  red  men.  Sometimes  he  would 
assume  the  form  of  a  bear,  a  panther,  or  a 
deer,  lead  the  bewildered  hunter  a  weary 
chase  through  tangled  forests  and  among 
ragged  rocks;  and  then  spring  off  with  a  loud 
ho!  ho!  leaving  him  aghast  on  the  brink  of  a 
beetling  precipice  or  raging  torrent. 

The  favorite  abode  of  this  Manitou  is  still 
shown.  It  is  a  great  rock  or  cliff  on  the  lone- 
liest part  of  the  mountains,  and  from  the  flow- 
ering vines  which  clamber  about  it,  and  the 
wild  flowers  which  abound  in  its  neighborhood 
is  known  by  the  name  of  the  Garden  Rock. 
Near  the  foot  of  it  is  a  small  lake,  the  haunt 
of  the  solitary  bittern,  with  water-snakes 
basking  in  the  sun  on  the  leaves  of  the  pond- 
lilies  which  lie  on  the  surface.  This  place  was 
held  in  great  awe  by  the  Indians,  insomuch 
that  the  boldest  hunter  would  not  pursue  his 
game  within  its  precincts.  Once  upon  a  time, 
however,  a  hunter  who  had  lost  his  way,  pen- 
etrated to  the  garden  rock,  where  he  beheld  a 
number  of  gourds  placed  in  the  crotches  of 
trees.     One  of  these  he  seized  and  made  off  with 

107 


it;  but  in  the  hurry  of  his  retreat  he  let  it  fall 
among  the  rocks,  when  a  great  stream  gushed 
forth,  which  washed  him  away  and  swept 
him  down  precipices,  where  he  was  dashed  to 
pieces,  and  the  stream  made  its  way  to  the 
Hudson,  and  continues  to  flow  to  the  present 
day;  being  the  identical  stream  known  by 
the  name  of  the  Kaaters-kill. 


108 


Sunnyside 


The  Home  of  Many  Memories 


As  our  "Washington  Irving"  sails  the  bright 
waters  of  Tappan  Zee  he  speaks  familiarly 
of  his  dear  Sunnyside  as  "The  Roost" — the 
"Wolfert  Roost"  of  old  Baltus  Van  Tassel 
and  his  fair  daughter  Katrina.  Where  Icha- 
bod  Crane  lingered  that  eventful  night  after 
all  the  guests  were  gone  which  preceded  his 
dramatic  ride  with  the  "Headless  Horseman" 
referred  to  more  fully  in  his  "Legend  of  Sleepy 
Hollow." 

Irving  aptly  described  Sunnyside  as  "made 
up  of  gable-ends,  and  full  of  angles  and  cor- 
ners as  an  old  cocked  hat.  It  is  said,  in  fact, 
to  have  been  modeled  after  the  hat  of  Peter 
the  Headstrong,  as  the  Escurial  of  Spain  was 
fashioned  after  the  gridiron  of  the  blessed  St. 
Lawrence."  Wolfert's  Roost  (Roost  sig- 
nifying  Rest)    took   its    name   from   Wolfert 

109 


Acker,  a  former  owner.  It  consisted  original- 
ly of  ten  acres  when  purchased  by  Irving  in 
1855,  but  several  acres  were  afterwards  added. 
With  great  humor  Irving  put  above  the  porch 
entrance  "George  Harvey,  Boum'r,"  Bou- 
meister  being  an  old  Dutch  word  for  architect. 
A  storm- worn  weathercock,  "which  once  bat- 
tled with  the  wind  on  the  top  of  the  Stadt 
House  of  New  Amsterdam  in  the  time  of  Peter 
Stuyvesant,  erects  his  crest  on  the  gable,  and 
a  gilded  horse  in  full  gallop,  once  the  weather- 
cock of  the  great  Van  der  Heyden  palace  of 
Albany,  glitters  in  the  sunshine,  veering  with 
every  breeze,  on  the  peaked  turret  over  the 
portal." 

About  fifty  years  ago  a  cutting  of  Walter 
Scott's  favorite  ivy  at  Melrose  Abbey  was 
transported  across  the  Atlantic,  and  trained 
over  the  porch  of  "Sunnyside,"  by  the  hand 
of  Mrs.  Renwick,  daughter  of  Rev.  Andrew 
Jeffrey  of  Lochmaben,  known  in  girlhood  as 
the  "Bonnie  Jessie"  of  Annandale,  or  the 
"Blue-eyed  Lassie"  of  Robert  Burns: — a  grace- 
ful tribute,  from  the  shrine  of  Waverly  to  the 
nest  of  Knickerbocker: 

A  token  of  friendship  immortal 

With  Washington  Irving  returns! — 

Scott's  ivy  entwined  o'er  its  portal 
By  the  Blue-eyed  Lassie  of  Burns. 

110 


Scott's  cordial  greeting  at  Abbotsford,  and 
his  persistence  in  getting  Murray  to  reconsid- 
er the  publication  of  the  "Sketch  Book," 
which  he  had  previously  declined,  were  never 
forgotten  by  Irving.  It  was  during  a  critical 
period  of  his  literary  career,  and  the  kindness 
of  the  Great  Magician,  in  directing  early  at- 
tention to  his  genius,  is  still  cherished  by 
every  reader  of  the  "  Sketch  Book"  from  Man- 
hattan to  San  Francisco.  The  hearty  grasp 
of  the  minstrel  at  the  gateway  of  Abbotsford 
was  in  reality  a  warm  handshake  to  a  wider 
brotherhood  beyond  the  sea. 

While  he  was  building  "Sunnyside"  a 
letter  came  from  Daniel  Webster,  then  Sec- 
retary of  State,  appointing  him  minister  to 
Spain.  It  was  unexpected  and  unsolicited, 
and  Webster  remarked  that  day  to  a  friend: 
"Washington  Irving  today  will  be  the  most 
surprised  man  in  America."  Irving  had  al- 
ready shown  diplomatic  ability  in  London  in 
promoting  the  settlement  of  the  "Northwest- 
ern Boundary,"  and  his  appointment  was  re- 
ceived with  universal  favor.  Then  as  now 
Sunnyside  was  already  a  Mecca  for  travel- 
ers and,  among  many  well  known  to  fame, 
was  a  young  man,  afterwards  Napoleon  the 
Third.  Referring  to  his  visit,  Irving  wrote  in 
1853:  "Napoleon  and  Eugenie,  Emperor  and 

111 


Empress!  The  one  I  have  had  as  a  guest  at  my 
cottage,  the  other  I  have  held  as  a  pet  child 
upon  my  knee  in  Granada.  The  last  I  saw 
of  Eugenie  Monti  jo,  she  was  one  of  the  reign- 
ing belles  of  Madrid;  now,  she  is  upon  the 
throne,  launched  from  a  returnless  shore,  upon 
a  dangerous  sea,  infamous  for  its  tremendous 
shipwrecks.  Am  I  to  live  to  see  the  catas- 
trophe of  her  career,  and  the  end  of  this  sud- 
denly conjured  up  empire,  which  seems  to  be 
of  such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of!  I  con- 
fess my  personal  acquaintance  with  the  in- 
dividuals in  this  historical  romance  gives  me 
uncommon  interest  in  it  but  I  consider  it 
stamped  with  danger  and  instability,  and  as 
liable  to  extravagant  vicissitudes  as  one  of 
Dumas'  novels."  A  wonderful  prophecy 
completely  fulfilled  in  the  short  space  of  sev- 
enteen years. 

Tappan  Zee,  at  this  point,  is  a  little  more 
than  two  miles  wide  and  over  the  beautiful 
expanse  Irving  has  thrown  a  wondrous  charm. 
There  is,  in  fact,  "magic  in  the  web"  of  all  his 
works.  A  few  modern  critics,  lacking  appre- 
ciation alike  for  humor  and  genius,  may  re- 
gard his  essays  as  a  thing  of  the  past,  but  as 
long  as  the  Mahicanituk,  the  ever-flowing 
Hudson,  pours  its  waters  to  the  sea,  as  long  as 
Rip  Van  Winkle  sleeps  in  the  blue  Catskills 

112 


or  the  "Headless  Horseman"  rides  at  midnight 
along  the  Old  Post  Road  en  route  for  Teller's 
Point,  so  long  will  the  writings  of  Washington 
Irving  be  remembered  and  cherished.  We 
somehow  feel  the  reality  of  every  legend  he 
has  given  us.  The  spring  bubbling  up  near 
his  cottage  was  brought  over,  as  he  gravely 
tells  us,  in  a  churn  from  Holland  by  one  of  the 
old  time  settlers,  and  we  are  half  inclined  to 
believe  it ;  and  no  one  ever  thinks  of  doubting 
that  the  "Flying  Dutchman,"  Mynheer  Van 
Dam,  has  been  rowing  for  two  hundred  years 
and  never  made  a  port.  It  is  in  fact  still 
said  by  the  old  inhabitants,  that  often  in  the 
soft  twilight  of  summer  evenings,  when  the 
sea  is  like  glass  and  the  opposite  hills  throw 
their  shadows  across  it,  that  the  low  vigorous 
pull  of  oars  is  heard  but  no  boat  is  seen. 


113 


The  Dreamland  of  the  Pocantico 
and  Sleepy  Hollow 


The  old  time  Dreamland  of  Washington 
Irving  has  been  consecrated  since  1859  as 
his  resting  place  where  worshippers  come 
with  reverend  footsteps  to  read  on  the  plain 
slab  this  simple  inscription:  "Washington 
Irving,  born  April  3,  1783.  Died  November 
28,  1859,"  and  recall  Longfellow's  beautiful 
lines : 

"Here  lies  the  gentle  humorist,  who  died 
In  the  bright  Indian  Summer  of  his  fame, 
A  simple  stone,  with  but  a  date  and  name, 

Marks  his  secluded  resting-place  beside 

The  river  that  he  loved  and  glorified. 

Here  in  the  autumn  of  his  days  he  came, 
But  the  dry  leaves  of  life  were  all  aflame 

With  tints  that  brightened  and  were  multiplied. 

How  sweet  a  life  was  his,  how  sweet  a  death; 

Living  to  wing  with  mirth  the  weary  hours, 
Or  with  romantic  tales  the  heart  to  cheer; 

Dying  to  leave  a  memory  like  the  breath 

Of  Summers  full  of  sunshine  and  of  showers, 
A  grief  and  gladness  in  the  atmosphere." 

114 


Sleepy  Hollow  Church,  like  Sunnyside,  is 
hidden  away  from  the  steamer  tourist  by 
summer  foliage.  Just  before  reaching  King- 
ston Point  lighthouse,  a  view,  looking  north- 
east up  the  little  bay  to  the  right,  will  sometimes 
give  the  outline  of  the  building.  Beyond  this 
a  tall  granite  shaft,  erected  by  the  Delevan 
family,  is  generally  quite  distinctly  seen,  and 
this  is  near  the  grave  of  Irving.  A  light- 
house, built  in  1883,  marks  the  point  where 
the  Pocantico  or  Sleepy  Hollow  Creek  joins 
the  Hudson: 

Pocantico 's  hushed  waters  glide 

Through  Sleepy  Hollow's  haunted  ground, 

And  whisper  to  the  listening  tide 

The  name  carved  o'er  one  lowly  mound. 


115 


Washington  Irving  at  Home 
and  Abroad 


His  writings,  journeys,  associations  and  his 
life,  by  Wallace  Bruce 


The  memory  of  Washington  Irving  rests 
like  a  ray  of  sunshine  upon  the  pages  of  our 
early  history.  Born  in  1783,  at  the  close  of 
the  great  struggle  for  Independence,  his  life 
of  seventy-six  years  marks  a  period  of  growth 
and  material  progress,  the  pages  of  which  we 
have  just  been  turning,  and  it  is  peculiarly 
fitting  to  consider  at  this  time  in  the  morning 
of  our  Twentieth  Century  the  life  and  ser- 
vices of  our  sweetest  writer — the  best  rep- 
resentative of  our  early  culture. 

It  is  my  purpose  to  consider  his  writings, 
his  associations,  and  his  life,  and  I  take  up  his 
works  in  the  order  in  which  they  were  written, 
as  in  this  way  we  trace  the  natural  develop- 
ment of  the  writer  and  the  man. 

117 


"Knickerbocker,"  his  earliest  work,  writ- 
ten at  the  age  of  twenty-six,  bears  the  same 
relation  to  his  later  works  as  "Pickwick,"  the 
first  heir  of  Dickens'  invention,  to  his  novels 
that  follow.  And  there  is  another  point  of 
similarity  in  the  fact  that  "Knickerbocker" 
and  "Pickwick"  both  outgrew  the  original 
design  of  the  authors :  neither  Irving  nor  Dick- 
ens, when  he  took  pen  in  hand,  had  any  idea 
of  the  character  of  the  work  he  was  to  produce. 
The  philosophic  and  benevolent  Pickwick 
was  barely  rescued  from  being  the  head  of  a 
Nimrod  Hunting  Club,  with  a  character  cut 
to  fit  a  series  of  drawings  that  had  been  pur- 
chased from  the  wife  of  a  needy  artist  by  a 
second-class  publishing  house  in  London;  and 
the  idea  of  "Knickerbocker"  at  first  was  sim- 
ply to  parody  a  small  hand-book  which  had 
recently  appeared,  entitled  "A  Picture  of 
New  York."  Following  this  plan,  a  humor- 
ous description  of  the  early  governors  of  New 
Amsterdam  was  intended  merely  as  a  preface 
to  the  customs  and  institutions  of  the  city 
but  like  Buckle's  "History  of  Civilization," 
the  preface  became  the  body  of  the  book,  and 
all  idea  of  a  parody  was  early  and  happily 
abandoned.  The  rise  and  fall  of  the  Dutch 
domination  presented  a  subject  of  poetic 
unity.     In    the    character    of     the     pseudo- 

118 


historian  we  have  the  representative  of  a  race 
whose  customs  were  fast  passing  away,  and 
the  serio-comic  nature  of  the  work  is  intensi- 
fied, and  as  it  were  italicized,  at  the  very  out- 
set by  notices  in  the  New  York  Evening  Post 
and  other  journals  calling  attention  to  the 
mysterious  disappearance  of  Diedrich  Knick- 
erbocker. 

Never  was  any  volume  more  happily  in- 
troduced. Before  we  turn  a  single  page  of  the 
book  we  have  an  idea  of  the  veritable  writer. 
We  see  him  the  representative  of  a  noble  Dutch 
family — first  cousin  of  the  renowned  Con- 
gressman of  Schaghticoke.  We  become  in- 
terested in  the  mystery  that  surrounds  him; 
in  fact,  the  great  charm  of  the  book  is  in  the 
semi-reality,  or  assumed  personality,  of  Deid- 
rich  Knickerbocker.  The  portrait  of  Don 
Quixote,  so  familiar  to  every  one,  starting  out 
from  La  Mancha  to  redress  the  wrongs  of  the 
world,  is  not  more  clearly  drawn  and  has  no 
more  reality  in  our  minds  than  the  historian 
of  New  Amsterdam,  with  his  silver  shoe- 
buckles  and  cocked  hat,  trudging  along  the 
old  post-road  from  village  to  village.  But 
there  is  this  difference  in  the  mind  of  the  read- 
er: in  the  great  satire  of  Cervantes  there  is 
an  element  of  sadness.  We  see  a  crazed  old 
gentleman  going  out  in  quest  of  adventures 

119 


exciting  our  pity,  almost  excusing  the  para- 
dox of  Lord  Byron,  "The  saddest  of  all  tales, 
and  more  sad  because  it  makes  us  laugh;" 
but  here  there  is  only  a  mild  sort  of  insanity 
about  the  old  gentleman  with  his  books  and 
papers,  wandering  off  on  long  excursions  that 
touches  our  humor  without  exciting  our  sym- 
pathy. We  see  as  it  were  only  a  touch  of  the 
same  malady  which  belongs  to  all  writers 
"seeking  after  immortality;"  and,  by  the  way, 
the  books  of  humor  we  have  here  associated — 
"Pickwick,"  "Don  Quixote,"  and  "Knicker- 
bocker"— belong  to  the  same  family,  can  be 
profitably  studied  together,  and  ought  to 
stand  upon  the  same  shelf  in  our  libraries. 
The  philosopher  Hume  said  "a  turn  for 
humor  was  worth  to  him  ten  thousand  a  year," 
and  perhaps  if  this  remark  had  been  fully  ex- 
plained to  the  early  members  of  the  New 
York  Historical  Society — to  whom,  by  the 
way,  the  volume  was  first  dedicated — the  fol- 
lowing paragraph  might  have  been  omitted 
from  our  Colonial  History:  "It  is  the  misfor- 
tune of  this  State,"  the  writer  says,  speaking 
of  New  York,  "that  its  early  founders  have 
been  held  up  to  the  ridicule  of  the  world  by 
one  of  its  most  gifted  sons,  who  has  exhausted 
the  resources  of  his  wit  and  satire  in  exposing 
imaginary  traits  in  their  characters,  while  the 

120 


most  polished  efforts  of  his  graver  style  have 
been  reserved  to  adorn  the  Corinthian  columns 
of  the  more  aristocratic  institutions  of  foreign 
countries.  Founders  of  ancient  dynasties  have 
sometimes  been  deified  by  their  successors. 
New  York  is  perhaps  the  only  commonwealth 
whose  founders  have  been  covered  with  ridi- 
cule from  the  same  quarter."  Some  of  the 
old  Holland  families  are  also  reported  to  have 
taken  the  work  in  high  dudgeon  as  a  rash  in- 
vasion of  the  domain  of  history;  and  I  believe 
one  of  the  gentle  sex  in  Albany,  who  perhaps 
had  no  brother  or  lover  to  fight  a  duel,  pro- 
posed herself  with  her  own  hands  to  horse- 
whip the  offensive  writer  for  his  bold  attempt, 
forsooth,  at  spelling  and  printing  for  the  first 
time  some  of  the  old  family  names. 

From  today's  standpoint  these  things  seem 
ludicrous  and  uncalled  for  in  reference  to  a 
work  abounding  in  kindly  humor,  everywhere 
accepted  as  the  finest  blending  of  the  classic 
and  the  comic  in  our  literature;  and  were  it 
not  that  these  early  enemies  soon  became  his 
warmest  friends,  I  would  certainly  pass  it  over 
in  silence;  but  the  transition  was  so  sudden 
and  sincere  that  it  is  one  of  the  pleasantest 
features  in  his  history,  and  Irving  himself 
when  preparing  his  revised  edition,  refers  to 
the  matter  with  evident  satisfaction  in  a  pref- 

121 


atory  article  facetiously  styled  "The  Author's 
Apology. "  "When  I  find,  after  a  lapse  of 
forty  years,  this  haphazard  production  of  my 
youth  still  cherished  among  the  descendants 
of  the  Dutch  worthies;  when  I  find  its  very 
name  become  a  household  word,  and  used  to 
give  the  home-stamp  to  everything  recom- 
mended for  popular  acceptance,  such  as 
Knickerbocker  societies,  Knickerbocker  in- 
surance companies,  Knickerbocker  steam- 
boats, Knickerbocker  omnibuses,  Knicker- 
bocker's bread,  and  Knickerbocker  ice;  and 
when  I  find  New  Yorkers  of  Dutch  descent 
priding  themselves  upon  being  genuine  Knick- 
erbockers— I  please  myself  with  the  persuasion 
that  I  have  struck  the  right  chord;  that  my 
dealings  with  the  good  old  Dutch  times,  and 
the  customs  and  usages  derived  from  them,  are 
in  harmony  with  the  feelings  and  humors  of 
my  townsmen;  that  I  have  opened  a  vein  of 
pleasant  associations  and  quaint  character- 
istics peculiar  to  my  native  place,  and  which 
its  inhabitants  will  not  willingly  suffer  to  pass 
away;  and  that,  though  other  histories  of  New 
York  may  appear  of  higher  claim  to  learned 
acceptance,  and  may  take  their  appropriate 
and  dignified  rank  in  the  family  library,  Knick- 
erbocker's history  will  still  be  received  with 
good-humored   intelligence,   and   be   thumbed 

122 


and  chuckled  over  by  the  family  fireside  " 
It  was  indeed  wide  from  the  sober  aim  of 
history,  but  no  volume  ever  gave  such  rose- 
tint  colors  to  the  early  annals  of  any  country, 
and  New  York,  instead  of  being  covered  with 
ridicule,  is  today  the  only  State  of  this  Union 
whose  early  history  is  associated  with  the  gold- 
en age  of  poetry,  with  "an  antiquity  extend- 
ing back  into  the  regions  of  doubt  and  fable," 
and  it  is  safe  to  say  that  the  streams  of  Scot- 
land are  no  more  indebted  to  the  genius  of  Robert 
Burns  and  Walter  Scott  than  the  Hudson  and 
the  Catskills  to  the  pen  of  Washington  Irving. 

So  much  for  the  introduction,  the  first  re- 
ception, and  the  success  of  "Knickerbocker;" 
but  I  cannot  refrain,  in  passng,  from  giving  a 
few  illustrations  from  this  most  picturesque 
of  histories.  Perhaps  the  sketch  of  the  first 
governor  of  New  Amsterdam  is  one  of  the 
happiest  in  its  outline  and  general  filling: 

"The  renowned  Wouter  Van  Twiller  was 
descended  from  a  long  line  of  Dutch  burgo- 
masters, who  had  comported  themselves  with 
such  singular  wisdom  and  propriety  that  they 
were  never  either  heard  or  talked  of,  which, 
next  to  being  universally  applauded,  should  be 
the  ambition  of  all  magistrates.  He  was  a 
man  shut  up  within  himself,  like  an  oyster; 
but  then  it  was  allowed  he  seldom  said  a  foolish 

123 


thing.  So  invincible  was  his  gravity  that  he 
was  never  known  either  to  laugh  or  to  smile 
through  the  whole  course  of  a  long  and  pros- 
perous life.  Nay,  if  a  joke  were  uttered  in 
his  presence  that  set  light-minded  hearers  in 
a  roar,  it  was  observed  to  throw  him  into  a 
state  of  perplexity.  He  was  exactly  five  feet 
six  inches  in  height,  and  six  feet  five  inches 
circumference.  His  face,  that  infallible  index 
of  the  mind,  presented  a  vast  expanse  unf  urrow- 
ed  by  any  of  those  lines  or  angles  which  dis- 
figure the  human  countenance  with  what  is 
termed  expression,  He  daily  took  his  four 
stated  meals,  appropriating  exactly  an  hour 
to  each.  He  smoked  and  doubted  eight 
hours,  and  slept  the  remaining  twelve  of  the 
four-and-twenty.  Such  was  the  renowned 
Wouter  Van  Twiller  governor  of  the  golden 
age  of  the  province."  ' 'Honest  days,"  as 
the  historian  proceeds,  "when  every  woman 
wore  pockets,  aye,  and  that,  too,  of  a  goodly 
size,  fashioned  with  patchwork  into  many 
curious  devices  and  ostentatiously  worn  on 
the  outside.  These,  in  fact,  were  conven- 
ient receptacles  where  all  good  housewives 
carefully  stored  away  such  things  as  they 
wished  to  have  at  hand,  by  which  means  they 
often  came  to  be  incredibly  crammed;  and 
I  remember  there  was  a   story  current  when  I 

124 


was  a  boy  that  the  lady  of  Wouter  Van  Twil- 
ler  once  had  occasion  to  empty  her  right  pock- 
et in  search  of  a  wooden  ladle,  when  the  con- 
tents filled  a  couple  of  corn  baskets,  and  the 
utensil  was  discovered  lying  among  some  rub- 
bish in  one  corner,  but  we  must  not  give  too 
much  faith  to  all  these  stories,  the  anecdotes 
of  remote  periods  being  very  subject  to  ex- 
aggeration." 

I  pass  over  the  tea  parties  and  parlor  gath- 
erings, the  dress  and  manners,  his  chapters  of 
philosophy  and  those  "happy  days  of  prime- 
val simplicity  when  there  were  neither  public 
commotions  nor  private  quarrels,  neither  par- 
ties nor  sects  nor  schisms,  neither  persecu- 
tions nor  trials  nor  punishments;  when  every 
man  attended  to  what  little  business  he  was 
lucky  enough  to  have,  or  neglected  it,  if  he 
pleased,  without  asking  the  opinion  of  his 
neighbor;  when  nobody  meddled  with  con- 
cerns above  his  comprehension,  nor  neglected 
to  correct  his  own  conduct  in  his  zeal  to  pull  to 
pieces  the  characters  of  others."  I  pass  over 
the  days  of  William  the  Testy,  who  first  in- 
troduced the  art  of  fighting  by  proclamation 
the  inroads  of  the  Yankees  with  their  witch- 
craft— their  inventions,  their  schoolmasters, 
and  wandering  propensities — who  "required 
only  an  inch  to  gain  an  ell,  or  a  halter  to  gain 

125 


a  horse;  who  from  the  time  they  first  gained 
a  foothold  on  Plymouth  Rock  began  to  mi- 
grate, progressing  and  progressing  from  place 
to  place,  making  a  little  here  and  a  little  there, 
and  controverting  the  old  proverb  that  a  roll- 
ing stone  gathers  no  moss.  Hence  they  have 
facetiously  received  the  nickname  of  the  Pil- 
grims,— that  is  to  say,  a  people  who  are  al- 
ways seeking  a  better  country  than  their  own." 
We  see  Antony  Van  Corlear,  the  celebrated 
trumpeter,  on  his  diplomatic  mission  up  the 
Hudson — a  chapter  too  dramatic  for  these 
degenerate  days.  We  see  the  noble  army  of 
Peter  Stuyvesant  passing  in  review  before  us, 
and  come  with  sorrow  to  the  brief  line  in  which 
the  chivalric  hero  is  gathered  to  his  fathers — 
"Well,  den,  hardkoppig  Peter  ben  gone  at  last." 

In  his  first  volume  we  would  naturally  look 
for  his  peculiar  characteristics  as  a  writer,  and 
we  find  a  rich  vein  of  humor  and  invention; 
but  here  and  there  are  gentle  touches  and  the 
promise  of  other  qualities  to  which  Walter 
Scott  refers  in  a  letter  to  Henry  Brevoort: 

"I  have  never  read  anything  so  closely  re- 
sembling the  style  of  Dean  Swift  as  the  'An- 
nals of  Diedrich  Knickerbocker.'  I  have  been 
employed  these  few  evenings  in  reading  them 
aloud  to  Mrs.  Scott  and  two  ladies  who  are 
our  guests,  and  our  sides  have  been  absolutely 

126 


sore  with  laughing.  I  think,  too,  there  are 
passages  which  indicate  that  the  author  pos- 
sesses powers  of  a  different  kind,  and  has  some 
touches  which  remind  me  much  of  Sterne.  I 
beg  you  will  have  the  kindness  to  let  me  know 
when  Mr.  Irving  takes  pen  in  hand  again;  for 
assuredly  I  shall  expect  a  very  great  treat, 
which  I  may  chance  never  to  hear  of  but 
through  your  kindness." 

The  prophecy  of  Scott  waited  ten  years  for 
its  fulfilment,  but  it  came  at  last  in  the  most 
charming  collection  of  essays  in  our  language — 
the  "Sketch  Book" — which  I  divide  into  es- 
says of  character  and  sentiment,  English  pic- 
tures and  American  legends.  As  representa- 
tives of  the  first  I  take  "The  Broken  Heart," 
"The  Wife,"  "The  Widow  and  Her  Son." 

"The  Broken  Heart,"  perhaps  the  greatest 
favorite  of  his  character  sketches  and  the  best 
transcript  of  his  own  early  experience,  seems 
to  me  a  gem  in  our  literature.  In  the  short 
space  of  six  pages  he  portrays  the  finer  quali- 
ties of  woman's  nature,  and  illustrates  it  with 
the  touching  story  of  Curran's  daughter,  whose 
heart  was  buried  in  the  coffin  of  Robert  Emmet. 
This  essay  was  suggested  by  a  friend  who  had 
seen  the  heroine  at  a  masquerade  and  heard 
the  plaintive  song  which  melted  every  one  to 
tears : 

127 


"She  is  far  from  the  land  where  her  young  hero  sleeps. 

She  sings  the  wild  songs  of  her  dear  native  plains, 

Every  note  which  he  loved  awaking. 
Ah!  little   they   think   who   delight   in   her   strains 

How  the  heart  of  the  minstrel  is  breaking." 

In  the  whole  range  of  English  literature  I 
know  of  no  pen  except  Irving's  which  could 
have  written  an  essay  like  this  in  plain  and 
simple  prose.  We  find  the  same  tender  senti- 
ment in  "Highland  Mary"  and  "Annabel  Lee;" 
but  poetry  is  the  natural  language  of  passion 
and  sorrow.  Irving  had  often  been  likened  to 
Addison,  but  in  this  particular  they  have  noth- 
ing in  common.  Edward  Everett  has  well 
said:  "One  chord  in  the  human  heart,  the 
pathetic,  for  whose  sweet  music  Addison  had 
no  ear,  Irving  touched  with  the  hand  of  a  mas- 
ter. He  learned  that  skill  in  the  school  of 
early  disappointment."  And  in  the  following 
passage  we  seem  to  hear  its  sad  but  sweet  vibra- 
tion still  responding  through  ten  years  of  sor- 
row to  the  memory  of  her  whose  hopes  were 
entwined  with  his:  "There  are  some  strokes  of 
calamity  which  scathe  and  scorch  the  soul, 
which  penetrate  to  the  vital  seat  of  happiness 
and  blast  it,  never  again  to  put  forth  bud  and 
blossom;  and  let  those  tell  her  agony  who  have 
had  the  portals  of  the  tomb  suddenly  closed 

128 


between  them  and  the  being  they  most  loved 
on  earth;  who  have  sat  at  its  threshold  as  one 
shut  out  in  a  cold  and  lonely  world  whence  all 
that  was  most  lovely  and  loving  had  departed." 

It  is  said  when  Lord  Byron  was  dying  at  Mis- 
silonghi  that  he  requested  his  attendant  to  read 
to  him  "The  Broken  Heart."  While  he  was 
reading  one  of  the  most  touching  portions  the 
poet's  eyes  moistened  and  he  said,  "Irving  nev- 
er wrote  that  story  without  weeping,  nor  can  I 
hear  it  without  tears;"  and  he  added,  "I  have 
not  wept  much  in  this  world,  for  trouble  never 
brings  tears  to  my  eyes,  but  I  always  have 
tears  for 'The  Broken  Heart.'  " 

Soon  after  its  publication  in  England,  Irving 
met  Mrs.  Siddons.  After  his  introduction  the 
queen  of  tragedy  looked  at  him  for  a  moment 
and  then,  in  her  clear,  deep-toned  voice,  she 
slowly  enunciated,  "You  have  made  me  weep." 
As  Pierre  Irving  remarks  in  his  "Life  and  Let- 
ters," "Nothing  could  have  been  finer  than  such 
a  compliment  from  such  a  source,  but  the  *  ac- 
cost' was  so  abrupt  and  the  manner  so  peculiar 
that  our  modest  writer  was  completely  discon- 
certed." Some  time  afterward,  after  the  ap- 
pearance of  his  "Bracebridge  Hall,"  they  again 
met,  and  singularly  enough  she  addressed  him 
in  the  self-same  fashion — "You've  made  me 
weep  again."     "Ah!"  replied  Irving,  "but  you 

129 


taught  me  first  to  weep,"  as  he  called  up  his 
first  visit  to  London,  fifteen  years  before  the 
"  Sketch-Book"  was  written  and  the  then  won- 
derful power  of  this  actress  without  a  rival. 

Kindred  to  this  essay  which  we  have  just  con- 
sidered, and  well  suited  as  a  companion-sketch, 
I  select  "The  Wife,"  a  true  picture  of  woman's 
power  in  adversity.  As  the  story  goes,  his 
friend  Leslie  had  married  a  beautiful  and  ac- 
complished girl,  and,  having  an  ample  fortune 
it  was  his  ambition  that  her  life  should  be  a 
fairy-tale;  but  one  day,  having  embarked  in 
speculation,  his  riches  took  to  themselves  wings 
and  he  found  himself  reduced  almost  to  penury. 
For  a  time  he  keeps  his  situation  to  himself, 
but  every  look  reveals  his  sorrow.  When  at 
last  he  tells  his  story  and  we  see  her  rising  from 
a  state  of  childish  dependence,  becoming  the 
support  and  comfort  of  her  husband  in  his  mis- 
fortune, and  follow  them  from  a  mansion  to  a 
cottage,  we  feel  that  the  last  state  of  that  man  is 
better  than  the  first.  In  the  knowledge  and 
possession  of  such  a  heart  he  had  truer  riches 
than  diamonds  can  symbolize,  and  to  the  credit 
of  our  better  nature  the  words  of  Irving  are 
true:  "There  is  in  every  true  woman's  heart  a 
spark  of  heavenly  fire  which  lies  dormant  in  the 
broad  daylight  of  prosperity,  but  which  kindles 
up  and  beams  and  blazes  in  the  dark  hour  of 

130 


adversity.  No  man  knows  what  the  wife  of  his 
bosom  is;  no  man  knows  what  a  ministering 
angei  she  is,  until  he  has  gone  with  her  through 
the  fiery  trials  of  this  world."  What  a  beauti- 
ful simile  is  this:  "As  the  vine  which  has  long 
twined  its  graceful  foliage  about  the  oak,  and 
been  lifted  by  it  into  sunshine,  will,  when  the 
hardy  plant  is  rifted  by  the  thunderbolt,  cling 
round  it  with  its  caressing  tendrils  and  bind  up 
its  shattered  boughs,  so  is  it  beautifully  ordered 
by  Providence  that  woman,  who  is  the  mere  de- 
pendent and  ornament  of  man  in  his  happier 
hours,  should  be  his  stay  and  solace  when  smit- 
ten by  sudden  calamity,  winding  herself  into 
the  rugged  recesses  of  his  nature,  tenderly  sup- 
porting the  drooping  head  and  binding  up  the 
broken  heart." 

Outside  of  the  drama  of  Shakespeare  and  the 
pages  of  Walter  Scott,  I  know  of  no  pictures  of 
graceful  womanhood  so  complete  as  those  found 
in  Irving's  Sketch  Book.  It  is  said  that  the 
original  of  which  this  character  is  a  copy,  was 
the  wife  of  the  poet  Morris;  and  perhaps  the 
following  incident  gave  rise  to  the  suggestion 
which  shows  how  little  truth  popular  rumor 
needs  for  a  sustaining  diet.  While  minister  at 
Spain  he  received  a  letter  from  his  brother  say- 
ing that  General  Morris  requested  permission 
to  publish  his  story  of  "The  Wife"  in  a  periodi- 

131 


cal  of  which  he  was  proprietor,  and  Irving 
facetiously  responded,  "Give  my  regards  to 
General  Morris,  and  tell  him  he  is  quite  wel- 
come to  my  wife, — which  is  more  than  most  of 
his  friends  could  say."  (Perhaps  Rip  Van 
Winkle  would  have  been  willing  to  have 
thrown  in  his.) 

The  other  sketch  to  which  we  call  attention 
in  our  division  of  character  and  sentiment — 
"The  Widow  and  her  Son" — is  one  of  the  most 
pathetic  in  the  "Sketch  Book,"  and  follows 
naturally  the  two  we  have  just  considered. 
It  seems  to  round  out  and  complete  Irving's 
idea  of  womanhood  as  seen  in  a  maiden's  life, 
a  wife's  devotion,  and  a  mother's  love.  What 
depths  of  feeling  in  passages  like  this:  "Oh! 
there  is  an  enduring  tenderness  in  the  love  of  a 
mother  to  her  son  that  transcends  all  other  af- 
fections of  the  heart.  It  is  neither  to  be  chilled 
by  selfishness,  nor  daunted  by  danger,  nor 
weakened  by  worthlessness,  nor  stifled  by  in- 
gratitude. She  will  sacrifice  every  comfort  to 
his  convenience;  she  will  surrender  every  pleas- 
ure to  his  enjoyment;  she  will  glory  in  his  fame 
and  exult  in  his  prosperity;  and,  if  misfortune 
overtake  him,  he  will  be  the  dearer  to  her  from 
misfortune;  and,  if  disgrace  settle  upon  his 
name,  she  will  still  love  and  cherish  him  in 
spite  of   his    disgrace;  and,    if   all    the   world 

132 


beside  cast  him  off,  she  will  be  all  the  world 
to  him." 

There  are  few  passages  in  prose  or  poetry 
more  touching  than  the  description  of  the 
mother's  effort  to  put  on  something  like  mourn- 
ing for  her  only  son — a  black  ribbon  or  so,  a 
faded  black  handkerchief — showing  the  strug- 
gle between  pious  affection  and  utter  poverty. 

All  through  these  essays  we  seem  to  see  a 
gentle  spirit  clouded  by  some  great  sorrow,  yet 
cheerful  in  spite  of  misfortune.  What  a  change 
has  come  over  him  since  "Knickerbocker"! 
Lord  Bacon  says,  "It  is  more  pleasing  to  have  a 
lively  work  upon  a  sad  and  solemn  ground  than 
to  have  a  dark  and  melancholy  work  upon  a 
lightsome  ground."  This  may  be  true  in  pic- 
tures, but  not  in  character;  for  the  principal 
element  in  that  happy  compound — a  genuine 
man  or  woman — is  cheerfulness,  and  disposi- 
tion naturally  gloomy  and  foreboding  is  rarely 
ever  so  thoroughly  irradiated,  even  by  the 
light  of  heaven,  that  we  are  not  chilled  by  con- 
tact. Misanthropy  never  improves  by  years: 
it  is  a  heart-thermometer  ever  below  freezing- 
point  even  in  the  sunlight  of  prosperity.  But 
there  are  natures  so  bright  and  lightsome  that 
no  clouds  of  misfortune  can  hide  their  cheering 
radiance;  mellowed  by  sorrow,  and  tempered 
by  adversity,  they  shine  forth  in  gentle  gleams, 

133 


full  of  genial  and  tender  expression;  and  I 
think  this  distinction  is  one  your  own  reading 
will  justify:  that  we  find  in  these  essays  a 
bright  spirit  sobered  by  sorrow,  but  look  in 
vain  for  a  line  of  misanthropy. 

There  is  another  element  in  Irving's  composi- 
tion no  less  marked  than  his  humor  and  pathos 
— a  reverence  for  antiquity  which  forms  a 
marked  feature  in  the  essays  that  we  designate 
as  English  pictures.  In  his  "Rural  Life"  and 
"Christmas  Sketches"  we  see  his  love  for  the 
old  English  writers,  and  recognize  the  fact 
that  Chaucer  and  Spenser  were  among  his 
favorite  authors.  These  early  poets  were  to 
him  something  more  than  "wells  of  English 
undefiled."  They  are  rather  like  the  lakes 
of  the  Adirondacks,  separated  from  each  other 
and  from  us  by  events  which  loom  up  like 
mountains  in  the  world's  history,  clear  and 
cool  in  far-off  solitudes,  reflecting  in  their 
bright  mirrors  the  serenity  of  earth  and  the 
broad  expanse  of  heaven,  responding  to  the 
gentle  glow  of  summer  sunsets,  holding  quiet 
communion  with  the  evening  stars,  and  awak- 
ing to  rosy  life  at  the  first   touch  of  morning. 

The  old  English  ballads  have  all  the  sparkles 
the  energy,  and  rhythm  of  our  mountain 
streams,  but  Chaucer,  Spenser,  Shakespeare, 
and  Bunyon  are  the  fountains  from  which  flows 

134 


the  river — ay,  the  Hudson — of  our  language. 
Irving's  mind  was  early  turned  to  these 
sources  of  our  literature,  and  we  find  the  result 
of  this  study  a  pure  and  classic  style.  What  a 
beautiful  acknowledgment  is  this:  "The  pas- 
toral writers  of  other  countries  appear  as  if 
they  had  paid  nature  an  occasional  visit  and 
become  acquainted  with  her  general  charms, 
but  the  British  poets  have  lived  and  revelled 
with  her;  they  have  wooed  her  in  her  most 
secret  haunts;  they  have  watched  her  minut- 
est caprices;  a  spray  could  not  tremble  in  the 
breeze,  a  leaf  could  not  rustle  to  the  ground,  a 
diamond  drop  could  not  patter  in  the  stream,  a 
fragance  could  not  exhale  from  the  humble  vio- 
let, nor  a  daisy  unfold  its  crimson  tints  to  the 
morning,  but  it  has  been  noticed  by  these  im- 
passioned and  delicate  observers  and  wrought 
up  into  some  beautiful  morality." 

With  this  deep  love  for  the  old  masters  of 
English  literature,  we  are  not  surprised  that 
Westminster  Abbey,  with  its  Poet's  Corner, 
should  be  the  subject  of  one  of  his  earliest  es- 
says; and  the  principal  feature  of  this  essay, 
and  that  which  makes  it  the  enduring  one  of 
all  that  have  been  written  on  this  venerable 
pile,  is  the  native  quality  of  reverence  and  sin- 
cerity. And  it  is  indeed  pleasant  in  days, 
when  flippant  writing  is  often  received  for  wit 

135 


and  misspelled  slang  accepted  for  originality 
to  turn  to  these  essays  in  which  we  see  the  nobil- 
ity of  a  royal  heart,  and  feel  that  "Truth  and 
Good  and  Beauty — the  offspring  of  God — are 
not  subject  to  the  changes  which  beset  the  in- 
vention of  men."  I  make  no  quotation  from 
this  familiar  essay.  It  possesses  too  much 
unity  to  detach  a  paragraph  or  a  sentence.  I 
can  only  say  I  read  it  over  and  over  with  the 
name  interest  today  as  years  ago  in  the  deep 
shadow  of  that  melancholy  aisle  at  the  tomb  of 
the  unfortunate  Mary  Queen  of  Scots. 

There  is  one  other  place  in  England  where  I 
rook  my  pocket  edition  of  the  "Sketch  Book," 
— to  Stratf ord-on-Avon ;  for,  more  than  any 
other  man,  Irving  is  associated  with  the  home 
and  burial-place  of  the  world's  greatest  poet. 
Writers  without  number,  and  many  well  known 
to  fame,  have  given  their  impressions  of  Strat- 
ford, but  Irving's  description  supersedes  them 
all.  It  seems  as  if  the  quiet  and  pensive  char- 
acter of  the  man  fits  into  the  rural  scenery  of 
England — ay!  as  if  the  hills  and  woodlands  of 
Warwickshire,  recognizing  a  kindred  spirit  to 
their  gentle  Shakespeare,  after  the  laspe  of 
three  centuries,  had  associated  in  enduring 
framework  and  sweet  companionship  the  liv- 
ing presence  of  our  gentlest  writer.  What  a 
wonderful  blending  of  the  old  and  the  new! 

136 


Two  hundred  and  fifty  years  of  progress,  of 
struggle  and  invention!  A  new  nation  rising 
into  being,  with  its  material  trinity — the 
steam-engine,  the  printing-press,  and  the  tele- 
graph. The  single  newspaper  of  Queen  Eliza- 
beth unfolding  in  every  town  and  city  its 
crowded  columns  of  daily  and  hourly  records 
from  every  quarter  of  the  globe.  Ariel  and 
Puck,  at  last  thoroughly  materialized,  and 
dressed  in  comely  muslin,  whisper  to  each 
other  across  a  continent,  and  beyond  the  Ber- 
mudas, to  the  far-off  islands  of  the  sea.  It 
seems,  indeed,  a  new  world,  separated  from  the 
old  by  greater  spaces  than  waste  of  waters  or 
the  lapse  of  years;  but  in  this  companionship 
of  Shakespeare  and  Irving  we  see  the  enduring 
qualities  of  the  human  heart.  In  the  deep 
sympathy  of  Irving's  nature  for  the  olden  time 
we  feel  that  he  has  added  another  charm  to 
Stratford — that  we,  as  a  nation,  have  a  better 
claim  to  the  great  poet.  We  muse  at  his  grave. 
We  wander  along  the  gently-flowing  Avon,  we 
rest  beneath  the  great  oaks  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy, 
We  pick  flowers  in  the  garden  of  Ann  Hatha- 
way's  cottage;  it  seems  as  if  Irving  in  some 
way  belongs  here  too,  and  we  are  not  at  all 
certain  if  the  Bacon  theory  is  established 
but  that  Irving  will  come  in  for  his  share  of  the 
dramas,  as  author  of  the  "Midsummer  Night's 

137 


Dream"  or  the  "Merry  Wives  of  Windsor." 
To  pass  from  the  very  centre  of  "Merrie 
England,"  with  its  hallowed  associations  and 
rich  inheritance  of  centuries,  to  the  mountains 
and  valleys  of  our  own  country,  would  be  a 
sudden  transition  if  the  space  were  not  bridged 
over  and  the  distance  dissipated  in  one  of  the 
closing  paragraphs  of  this  essay:  "I  had  been 
walking  all  day  in  a  complete  delusion.  I  had 
surveyed  the  landscape  through  the  prism  of 
poetry,  which  had  tinged  every  object  with 
the  hues  of  the  rainbow.  I  had  been  sur- 
rounded with  fancied  beings,  with  mere  airy 
nothings  conjured  up  by  poetic  power,  yet 
which  to  me  had  all  the  charm  of  reality;  and 
I  could  but  reflect  on  the  singular  gift  of  the 
poet,  to  be  able  thus  to  spread  the  magic  of  his 
mind  over  the  very  face  of  nature,  to  give  to 
things  and  places  a  charm  and  character  not 
their  own,  and  to  turn  this  working  day  world 
into  a  perfect  fairy-land." 

In  this  passage  we  find  the  best  description 
of  Irving's  own  creative  faculty.  This  wizard 
influence  which  the  traveller  experiences  at 
Stratford  is  equally  felt  along  the  banks  of  the 
Hudson.  The  whole  landscape,  from  the 
Palisades  to  the  Catskills,  is  seen  today  through 
the  prism  of  poetry — the  magic  of  his  mind 
spread  over  the  loveliest  vale  of  the  fairest 

138 


stream  that  flows,  and  this  working-day  world 
converted  into  a  perfect  fairy-land. 

It  is  said  that  "walls  must  get  the  weather- 
stain  before  they  grow  the  ivy;"  that  legends 
like  ghosts  flourish  best  in  an  uncertain  twi- 
light, or 

"Where  auld  ruined  castles  gray 
Nod   to   the   moon." 

We  expect  to  find  legends  flourishing  in  the 
gloaming  mountains  of  old  Scotland.  We  have 
easy  faith  for  the  Knights  of  the  Round  Table, 
the  Tales  of  Robin  Hood  and  the  brave  outlaws 
of  Sherwood  Forest.  We  see  the  frozen  my- 
thology of  Scandinavia  every  day  melting  into 
poetry,  like  the  fabled  words  of  Plato  or  the 
thawed-out  music  of  Baron  Munchausen's 
flute.  We  read  the  story  of  Undine  and  Hilde- 
brand,  the  "Arabian  Nights,"  the  prowess  of 
the  Cid,  and  the  warm  troubadour  chivalry  of 
southern  Europe;  but  what  have  we  to  do  with 
legends  and  poetry  in  the  broad  sunlight  of  the 
nineteenth  century?  These  have  no  place  when 
facts  and  history  pre-empt  the  soil. 

Yes!  but  this  adds  to  the  wonder  and  charm 
of  Irving's  creative  power!  the  romance  of 
Europe  was  to  be  had  for  the  gleaning.  In 
America  it  had  to  be  created;  and  the  wonder 
is  that  this  which  sprang  up  in  a  night  is  more 
real  than  the  legends  which  have  grown  and 

139 


blossomed  for  a  thousand  years .  He  touched  the 
mountains  and  the  valleys  with  the  wand  of  his 
fancy,  and  they  were  peopled  with  beings  more 
substantial  than  fairies,  more  real  than  history. 
In  his  "Rip  Van  Winkle"  and  "Legend  of 
Sleepy  Hollow,"  which  I  take  as  illustrations 
of  his  American  legends,  we  at  once  see  that  he 
is  one  of  the  few  writers  who  appreciate  the 
fact  that  comedy  is  quite  as  natural  as  tragedy. 
At  every  step  in  the  story  we  see  the  impossible ; 
but  after  all  we  feel  that  it  is  none  the  less  real. 
Bryant's  poem,  "The  Kaaterskill  Falls,"  is  at 
once  full  of  unity,  possibility,  and  beauty;  but 
it  is  a  dream  compared  with  the  "Legend  of 
Rip  Van  Winkle."  At  the  time  it  was  written 
we  understand  that  Irving  had  never  visited 
the  Catskill  Mountains;  in  the  legend  itself 
we  see  traces  of  a  German  superstition;  but 
there  is  this  feature  in  all  his  stories:  wherever 
he  located  them  they  seem  at  once  to  take  root 
and  flourish.  This  story  is  too  well  known, 
to  need  delineation.  The  old  Dutch  village, 
with  its  philosophers  and  sages;  the  shiftless 
but  good-natured  Van  Winkle ;  the  strange  ad- 
venture on  the  mountain;  the  return — it  all 
passes  before  our  mind  like  a  series  of  pictures : 
and  we  come  to  the  closing  scene,  which  the 
play- writer  would  have  done  well  to  follow; 
for  there  is  more  dramatic  unity  in  the  story 

140 


than  in  the  drama.  "Does  nobody  here  know 
Rip  Van  Winkle?"  "Oh!  Rip  Van  Winkle," 
exclaimed  two  or  three.  "Oh!  to  be  sure; 
there's  Rip  Van  Winkle  yonder,  leaning  against 
a  tree."  Rip  looked,  and  beheld  a  precise 
counterpart  of  himself  as  he  went  up  the  moun- 
tain, apparently  as  lazy  and  certainly  as  ragged. 
The  poor  fellow  was  now  completely  confound- 
ed. He  doubted  his  own  identity,  and  whether 
he  was  himself — or  another  man.  In  the 
midst  of  his  bewilderment  it  was  again  de- 
manded what  was  his  name.  "God  knows!" 
exclaimed  he,  at  his  wits'  end.  "I'm  not 
myself.  I'm  some  one  else.  That's  me  yon- 
der— no,  that's  somebody  else  got  into  my 
shoes.  I  was  myself  last  night,  but  I  fell 
asleep  on  the  mountains,  and  they've  changed 
my  gun,  and  everything's  changed,  and  I'm 
changed,  and  I  cannot  tell  what's  my  name  or 
who  I  am."  At  this  critical  moment  a  fresh 
comely  woman  pressed  through  the  throng  to 
get  a  peep  at  the  gray-bearded  man.  She  had 
a  chubby  child  in  her  arms  which,  frightened  at 
his  looks,  began  to  cry.  "Hush,  Rip,"  cried 
she,  "the  old  man  won't  hurt  you."  The 
name  of  the  child,  the  air  of  the  mother,  the 
tone  of  the  voice,  all  awakened  a  train  of 
recollections  in  his  mind.  "What  is  your  name 
my  good  woman?"  asked  he.     "Judith  Gar- 

141 


denier."  "And  your  father's  name?"  "Oh, 
poor  man!  Rip  Van  Winkle  was  his  name. 
It's  twenty  years  since  he  went  away  from 
home  with  his  gun,  and  has  never  been  heard 
of  since.  His  dog  came  home  without  him; 
but  whether  he  shot  himself  or  was  carried 
away  by  the  Indians  nobody  can  tell.  I  was 
then  but  a  little  girl."  Rip  had  but  one  ques- 
tion more  to  ask,  but  he  put  it  with  a  faltering 
voice.  "Where's  your  mother?"  "Oh!  she, 
too,  died  but  a  short  time  since.  She  broke  a 
blood-vessel  in  a  fit  of  passion  at  a  New  Eng- 
land pedler."  There  was  a  drop  of  comfort,  at 
least,  in  this  intelligence.  The  honest  man 
could  control  himself  no  longer.  He  caught 
his  daughter  and  child  in  his  arms.  "I  am 
your  father!"  cried  he.  "Young  Rip  Van 
Winkle  once,  old  Rip  Van  Winkle  now.  Does 
nobody  here  know  poor  Rip  Van  Winkle?" 

This  touch  of  humor,  even  in  the  most  in- 
tense part  of  the  drama,  is  entirely  consistent 
and  does  not  disturb  in  the  least  its  charming 
reality.  The  same  element  is  still  more  marked 
in  the  "Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow."  and  per- 
haps even  in  greater  degree  illustrates  the  reality 
of  Irving's  legends — their  power  of  taking  root 
and  flourishing  even  in   the  midst  of  history. 

On  the  old  post-road,  half  way  between 
Tarrytown  and  Sleepy  Hollow,  a  monument 

142 


marks  the  spot  where  Major  Andre  was  cap- 
tured, erected  in  1853  by  the  county  of  West- 
chester to  the  memory  of  the  brave  men  who 
ould  not  be  tempted  by  British  gold.  But 
this  marble  shaft  with  its  beautiful  inscription 
lack  the  magnetic  influence  and  the  heartfelt 
interest  of  the  plain  headstone  in  the  burial- 
yard  of  Sleepy  Hollow;  for  in  the  universal 
heart  of  mankind  the  poet's  corner  is  dearer 
than  the  hero's  tomb,  although,  as  here,  the 
hero  springs  from  the  common  people,  and 
his  monument  commemorates  the  highest  and 
the  rarest  courage — the  heroism  of  honesty! 
Nay,  more;  the  United  States  Government, 
in  remembrance  of  Paulding's  courage,  gave 
him  a  large  tract  of  land  in  Ohio,  and  from  this 
revenue  one  of  his  sons  built  one  of  the  finest 
villas  on  the  Hudson;  but  the  traveller  today 
along  our  river,  even  the  most  loyal  American, 
who  spells  his  country's  name  with  a  good- 
sized  capital  letter  and  rightly  considers  it  the 
first  in  the  alphabet  of  nations,  turns  with  a 
deeper  reverence  and  a  truer  love  to  a  little 
cottage  near  at  hand,  with  its  quaint  turrets 
and  gables  looking  out  on  the  tranquil  waters 
of  Tappan  Zee,  the  quiet  home  of  Diedrich 
Knickerbocker — the  Dutch  Herodotus — the 
writer  of  the  gentle  heart. 

Everything  that  Irving  has  written  about 

143 


Tarry  town  seems  to  partake  of  the  drowsy, 
dreamy  influence  that  pervades  the  very  at- 
mosphere. The  "Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow" 
seems  as  native  to  the  soil  as  the  bright,  honest- 
faced  flowers  of  their  snug-sheltered  gardens. 
As  Darwin  or  Huxley  would  say,  Irving's 
stories  fit  themselves  to  the  environments. 
They  belong  to  the  age  and  the  time  which 
they  represent.  What  a  natural  picture,  one 
we  all  have  seen,  is  this  of  old  Baltus  Van 
Tassel  dozing  his  life  away  in  solid  comfort,  his 
bustling  dame  completely  occupied  with  her 
housekeeping  and  her  poultry,  letting  her  rosy- 
cheeked  daughter  Katrina  do  just  as  she  pleas- 
ed, adding  a  sage  and  sensible  observation  fully 
appreciated  by  each  generation,  and  which  may 
some  day  be  endorsed  by  colleges  and  institu- 
tions of  learning,  that  "ducks  and  geese  are 
foolish  things  and  must  be  looked  after,  but 
girls  can  take  care  of  themselves."  We  are  in- 
troduced to  Ichabod  Crane,  the  Yankee  school- 
master of  the  neighborhood,  and  Brom  Bones, 
his  dangerous  rival  for  the  hand  and  fortune  of 
Katrina.  They  meet  at  a  quilt ing-party  at 
the  house  of  Mynheer  Van  Tassel,  where  we  are 
entertained  with  ghostly  stories  of  the  olden 
time,  including  a  marvelous  adventure  of 
Brom  Bones  with  the  well-known  goblin-rider, 
the  Headless  Hessian  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 

144 


Ichabod  lingers  after  the  company  disperses, 
— the  custom,  I  believe,  of  old-time  lovers; 
but  something  must  have  gone  wrong  in  the 
interview,  for  "he  sallies  forth  with  an  air  quite 
desolate  and  chopfallen,  and  now  at  the  very 
witching  time  of  night  he  mounts  his  steed  for 
his  homeward  journey.  Unluckily,  his  route 
was  the  very  road  over  which  the  headless 
horseman  was  wont  to  ride.  The  night  grew 
darker  and  darker.  The  stars  seemed  to  sink 
deeper  in  the  sky.  He  had  nevzr  felt  so  lonely 
and  miserable.  He  passed  the  fearful  tree 
where  Major  Andre  was  captured,  but  in  the 
dark  shadow  of  the  grove,  on  the  margin  of  the 
brook,  he  beheld  something  huge,  misshapen, 
black,  and  towering.  The  hair  of  the  affright- 
ed pedagogue  rose  upon  his  head  with  terror. 
To  turn  and  fly  was  now  too  late,  for  with  a 
scramble  and  a  bound  the  shadowy  object  put 
itself  into  motion  and  stood  at  once  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  road.  Ichabod  bethought  himself  of 
the  galloping  Hessian,  and  quickened  his  steed 
with  the  hopes  of  leaving  him  behind.  The 
stranger,  however,  quickened  his  horse  to  an 
equal  pace.  Ichabod  pulled  up  and  fell  into  a 
walk.  The  strange  horseman  did  the  same. 
His  heart  began  to  sink  within  him.  He  en- 
deavored to  sing  a  psalm-tune,  but  his  parched 
tongue  clove  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth.     There 

145 


was  something  in  the  silence  of  his  strange  com- 
panion at  once  mysterious  and  appalling.  It 
was  soon  fearfully  accounted  for.  On  mount- 
ing a  rising  ground,  which  brought  the  figure 
of  his  fellow-traveller  in  relief  against  the  sky, 
gigantic  in  height  and  muffled  in  a  cloak,  Icha- 
bod  was  horror-struck  on  perceiving  that  he 
was  headless,  but  his  horror  was  still  more  in- 
creased on  observing  that  the  head,  which 
should  have  rested  on  his  shoulders,  was  car- 
ried before  him  on  the  pommel  of  the  saddle." 
His  terror  rose  to  desperation,  and,  like  Caius 
Cassius  in  Macaulay's  poem  of  the  "Battle  of 
Lake  Regillus,"  he  rode  "for  death  and  life;" 
but  the  spectre  started  full  jump  with  him. 
"Away,  then,  they  dashed  through  thick  and 
thin,  stones  flying  and  sparks  flashing  at  every 
bound.  Ichabod's  flimsy  garments  fluttered  in 
the  air  as  he  stretched  his  long,  lank  body  away 
over  his  horse's  head  in  the  eagerness  of  his 
flight.  'If  I  can  but  reach  the  bridge,'  thought 
Ichabod,  'I'm  safe.'  Just  then  he  heard  the 
black  steed  panting  and  blowing  close  behind 
him.  He  even  fancied  that  he  felt  his  hot 
breath.  Another  convulsive  kick,  and  his 
steed  sprang  upon  the  bridge.  He  thundered 
over  the  resounding  planks.  He  gained  the 
opposite  side.  Then  he  saw  the  goblin  rising 
in  his  stirrups,  and  in  the  very  act  of  launching 

146 


his  head  at  him.  He  endeavored  to  dodge  the 
horrible  missile,  but  too  late.  It  encountered 
his  cranium  with  a  tremendous  crash.  He  was 
tumbled  headlong  into  the  dust,  and  the  black 
steed  and  the  goblin-rider  passed  by  like  a 
whirlwind.  The  next  day  a  saddle  was  found 
trampled  in  the  dirt;  the  tracks  of  horses  deep- 
ly dented  in  the  road,  evidently  at  furious 
speed,  were  traced  to  the  bridge,  beyond  which, 
on  the  bank  of  a  broad  part  of  the  brook,  where 
the  water  ran  deep  and  black,  was  found  the 
hat  of  the  unfortunate  Ichabod,  and  close  be- 
side it  a  shattered  pumpkin." 

Throughout  the  entire  race  we  are  reminded 
of  the  midnight  ride  of  Tarn  o'Shanter  when 
pursued  by  witches,  and  his  strange  adventure 
at  the  Bridge  of  Doon.  In  fact,  the  old  Dutch 
church  is  not  a  bad  representation  of  old  Allo- 
way  Kirk,  and  there  is  still  greater  resemblance 
in  the  fact  that  the  reality  of  the  poem  and  the 
reality  of  the  story  are  not  in  the  least  affected 
by  the  humorous  catastrophe. 

The  legends  of  "Sleepy  Hollow"  and  "Rip 
Van  Winkle"  were  introduced  in  the  "Sketch 
Book"  as  having  been  found  among  the  papers 
of  the  late  Diedrich  Knickerbocker.  In  touch- 
es of  humor  and  gentleness  of  spirit  they  are 
entirely  consistent  with  the  old  gentleman's 
character.     The    wit   and   humor   are   always 

147 


kindly,  and  these  qualities  find  happy  illustra- 
tion in  the  fact  that  Mr.  Jesse  Merwin,  the 
original  of  Ichabod  Crane,  whom  Irving  met 
at  the  house  of  Judge  Van  Ness,  was  always 
proud  of  the  delineation,  and  returned  the  com- 
pliment in  the  sincerest  way.  Think  of  it! 
Truth  is  indeed  stranger  than  fiction.  Ichabod 
Crane  survives  the  pumpkin  catastrophe,  woos 
and  weds  some  other  Katrina,  and  names  a  son 
after  Washington  Irving.  After  Irving's  death 
a  letter  was  found  among  his  papers — written 
by  our  Yankee  schoolmaster,  endorsed  in  Irv- 
ing's own  handwriting — "From  Jesse  Merwin 
the  original  of  Ichabod  Crane." 

I  have  dwelt  at  length  on  the  "  Sketch  Book," 
for  in  these  essays  the  writer  seems  to  have  un- 
packed every  quality  of  his  style.  We  find 
Bracebridge  Hall  outlined  in  his  "Christmas 
Sketches,"  the  spirit  of  the  Alhambra  in  "West- 
minster Abbey,"  and  Knickerbocker  in  his 
"American  Legends." 

It  is,  moreover,  one  of  the  few  books  that 
never  grow  old.  It  belongs  to  the  people,  and 
is  one  of  the  best  known  of  American  books. 
A  fine  critic  and  scholar,  George  Sumner,  said 
that  the  "Sketch  Book"  was  more  widely  read 
in  its  original  tongue  than  any  in  our  language 
except  the  "Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  and  Long- 
fellow, in  an  address  before  the  Massachusetts 

148 


Historical  Society,  pays  it  a  beautiful  tribute 
in  the  following  poetic  paragraph: 

"Every  reader  has  his  first  book,  one  among 
all  others  which  first  fascinates  his  imagination 
and  excites  and  satisfies  the  desires  of  his  mind 
To  me  this  was  the  '  Sketch  Book'  of  Washing- 
ton Irving.  How  many  delightful  works  he 
has  given  us,  written  before  and  since!  volumes 
of  history  and  fiction  which  illustrate  his  native 
land,  and  some  of  which  illuminate  it  and  make 
the  Hudson  as  romantic  as  the  Rhine.  Yet 
still  the  charm  of  the  'Sketch-Book'  remains 
unbroken,  the  old  fascination  still  lingers  about 
tt,  and  whenever  I  open  its  pages,  I  open  also 
ihat  mysterious  door  which  leads  back  into  the 
haunted  chambers  of  youth." 

"Bracebridge  Hall,"  his  next  volume,  written 
at  the  suggestion  of  Thomas  Moore,  gives  us  a 
fine  picture  of  old-fashioned  English  life.  The 
book  begins  where  most  stories  end — with  a 
wedding  gathering;  but  when  we  are  fairly 
introduced  to  the  Hall  and  its  hospitable  pro- 
prietor, we  are  in  no  hurry  for  the  wedding  to 
take  place.  In  the  society  of  Lady  Lilly-craft 
the  old  General,  the  tender-hearted  Phoebe 
Wilkins,  old  Simon  and  Christy,  we  are  con- 
tent to  float  on  together  for  months,  if  need  be, 
through  a  social  dream  of  five  hundred  pages. 
I  know  of  no  gathering  where  the  reader  more 

149 


thoroughly  feels  that  he  is  an  invited  guest. 
The  story  has  none  of  the  characteristics  of  a 
novel.  It  possesses  neither  plot  nor  dramatic 
quality.  The  essays  are  strung  together  like 
beads  on  a  slender  thread,  and  the  value  is  in 
the  beads  and  not  the  string.  We  may  forget 
the  fair  Julia  and  her  brave  Captain,  but  the 
sketch  of  the  "Stout  Gentleman"  and  "St. 
Mark's  Eve"  once  read  are  never  forgotten. 
We  may  forget  the  day  after  we  read  it  whether 
the  wedding  took  place  in  the  morning  or  in  the 
afternoon,  whether  the  bride  had  eyes  blue  or 
hazel,  or  like  most  of  lovers,  had  none  at  all; 
but  the  character  of  the  old  Squire,  with  his 
dogs,  his  whims  and  kindly  heart,  who  "taught 
his  boys  to  ride,  and  shoot,  and  speak  the 
truth,"  taken  an  enduring  hold  on  the  memory, 
when  we  close  the  volume  we  feel  that  Lowell  in 
his  "Fable  for  the  Critics"  has  given  us  in 
a  dozen  lines  a  genuine  crayon  sketch: 

"But  allow  me  to  speak  what  I  honestly  feel; 

To  a  true  poet-heart  add  the  fun  of  Dick  Steele; 

Throw  in  all  of  Addison  minus  the  chill, 

With  the  whole  of  that  partnership,  stock,  and  good -will 

Mix  well,  and  while  stirring  hum  o'er  as  a  spell 

The  fine  old  English  gentleman:  simmer  it  well. 

Sweeten  just  to  your  own  private  liking;  then  strain, 

That  only  the  finest  and  clearest  remain. 

Let  it  stand  out  of  doors  till  a  soul  it  receives 


150 


From  the  warm  lazy  sun  loitering  down  through  green 

leaves — 
And  you'll  have  a  choice  nature  not  wholly  deserving, 
A  name  either  English  or  Yankee — just  Irving." 

Next  to  "Bracebridge  Hall,"  in  order  of  pub- 
lication, we  have  the  "Tales  of  a  Traveller,"  to 
my  mind  the  most  unanchored  of  Irving's  writ- 
ings, and  therefore  lacking  for  the  most  part  the 
great  charm  and  unity  of  his  other  essays,  viz., 
local  associations  and  attachments. 

But,  if  any  of  his  friends,  on  either  side  of  the 
Atlantic,  were  disposed  to  be  critical,  their  cen- 
sure was  of  short  duration;  for  his  next  work 
the  "Life  and  Voyages  of  Columbus,"  was  a 
new  departure  in  the  right  direction.  This 
event — the  greatest  in  the  annals  of  mankind, 
the  most  daring  and  romantic  in  the  doman  of 
truth,  the  sublime  energy  and  perseverance  of  a 
man  struggling  with  fate — was  a  happy  subject 
for  his  pen,  and  it  was  so  carefully  written,  so 
graceful  in  style,  and  so  accurate  in  research, 
that  Lord  Jeffrey  remarks  in  the  Edinburgh  Re- 
view: "It  will  supersede  every  other  work  on 
the  subject  and  never  itself  be  superseded." 

Compliments  were  now  literally  showered 
upon  him  on  every  hand.  The  Royal  Society 
of  Literature  voted  the  new  historian  one  of 
their  fifty-guinea  gold  medals,  and,  with  just 
pride,   Irving   writes  to  this  brother,  "What 

151 


makes  this  the  more  gratifying  is  that  the  other 
medal  is  voted  to  Hallam,  author  of  the '  Mid- 
dle Ages.'  " 

There  is  an  incident  connected  with  this 
medal  worthy  of  notice.  Some  years  after 
his  return  to  America,  it  was  stolen  from  his 
brother's  safe  during  a  fire,  but  returned  the 
same  night  by  the  thief,  who  slyly  opened  the 
door  of  his  brother's  residence  and  threw  it  into 
the  hall.  This  medal  melted  down  into  a  mass 
of  shapeless  gold,  the  work  of  an  hour,  would 
have  been  worth  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars. 
Even  the  robber  had  respect  for  the  guinea- 
stamp  when  it  bore  the  inscription  of  Washing- 
ton Irving. 

"The  Chronicles  of  Granada,"  his  next  vol- 
ume, not  only  opens  up,  as  the  writer  says,  a 
tract  of  history  which  had  been  overrun  with 
the  weeds  of  fable,  but  also  forms  a  natural  in- 
troduction or  threshold  over  which  we  pass 
from  the  "History  of  Columbus"  to  the  "Tales 
of  the  Alhambra,"  aptly  styled  by  Prescott 
"the  beautiful  Spanish  Sketch  Book." 

His  "Crayon  Miscellany,"  published  on  his 
return  from  Europe,  contains  the  "Tour  on  the 
Prairies"  and  the  well-known  essays,  "Abbotts- 
ford"  and  "Newstead  Abbey."  Then  follow 
the  Spanish  Legends,  "Astoria"  and  the  "Ad- 
ventures of  Captain  Bonneville."     The  "Life 

152 


of  Goldsmith"  comes  next  in  order — a  labor 
of  sympathy  and  love.  The  "  Life  of  Mahomet" 
shows  his  passion  for  Oriental  history.  "Wol- 
fert  Roost,"  published  at  the  age  of  seventy- 
two,  is  full  of  the  old-time  humor  of  "Sleepy 
Hollow,"  and  brings  us  to  the  crowning  labor — 
the  fitting  capital  of  the  column — his  "Life  of 
Washington." 

Wonderful  as  these  volumes  are,  which  even 
in  this  brief  review  seem  to  rise  up  before  us 
like  a  new  vision  of  the  "Arabian  Nights,"  in 
our  literature  they  are  only  part  and  parcel  of 
the  poetry  of  his  own  experience.  His  pic- 
turesque and  varied  essays  are  the  natural  pro- 
duct of  a  varied  and  wandering  life,  and  to  feel 
the  full  beauty  of  his  works  we  must  read  them 
in  the  light  of  his  early  and  later  history. 

When  seventeen  years  of  age  he  made  his 
first  voyage  up  the  Hudson,  "in  the  good  old 
times,"  as  he  expresses  it,  "before  steamboats 
and  railroads  had  driven  all  poetry  and  ro- 
mance out  of  travel."  Three  years  later  we  see 
him  in  the  northern  wilderness  of  New  York  en 
route  for  Ogdensburg  and  Montreal — a  tedious 
journey  in  those  days  of  corduroy  roads  and 
unbridged  rivers.  After  his  return,  we  find 
him  at  Ballston  and  Saratoga  Springs,  given 
up  by  his  friends  to  die  of  consumption.  The 
following  year  we  see  him  in  southern  Europe, 

153 


in  quest  of  health  at  Marseilles,  Genoa,  and 
Sicily;  at  Rome,  in  company  with  Washington 
Allston,  half  persuaded  by  the  enthusiasm  of 
genius  to  try  his  own  hand  as  an  artist;  at 
Paris,  spending  six  months  with  profit  and 
pleasure,  judging  from  his  brief  journal  and 
correspondence;  then,  through  Belgium  and 
Holland,  to  London,  the  great  city  of  modern 
civilization — yes,  for  centuries  the  university 
of  the  poet  and  writer,  compared  with  which 
New  York,  with  its  strange  mixture  of  eighty 
thousand  inhabitants,  must  have  seemed  a  par- 
ish school. 

After  two  years'  absence  he  returns  with 
health  restored,  resumes  his  studies,  and  in  his 
twenty-fourth  year  is  admitted  attorney-at-law. 
But  the  following  year  we  find  him  pursuing 
the  main  business  of  his  life — viz.,  literature 
and  travel.  The  first  number  of  Salmagundi 
appears  early  in  January.  In  March,  his  let- 
ters bear  date  Philadelphia;  in  May,  Freder- 
icksburgh;  in  June,  Richmond,  drawn  thither 
by  the  magnetism  and  trial  of  Aaron  Burr. 
The  following  season  he  makes  two  trips  to 
Montreal,  and  spends  a  number  of  weeks  at  the 
residence  of  Judge  Van  Ness,  now  known  as 
Lindenwald,  home  of  the  late  Martin  Van 
Buren.  We  next  see  him  at  Baltimore  and 
Washington — cities    far    removed    from    New 

154 


York  in  those  primitive  times  when  our  travel- 
ler "spent  three  days  on  the  road  and  one  night 
in  a  log-house."  In  1813  we  find  him  editor 
of  the  Analectic  Magazine  in  Philadelphia.  In 
1814,  during  our  second  war  with  Great  Britain 
we  see  him  secretary  of  Governor  Tompkins, 
with  the  rank  of  colonel,  bearing  despatches 
through  the  western  wilderness  to  Sackett's 
Harbor  on  Lake  Ontario.  At  the  close  of  the 
war  we  see  him  in  his  brother's  counting-house 
in  Liverpool.  The  following  season  he  makes 
a  pilgrimage  through  the  Welsh  Mountains, 
the  central  part  of  England,  and  the  Highlands 
of  Scotland.  The  next  season  we  find  him 
harassed  with  business,  until  the  failure  and 
bankruptcy  of  the  firm  swept  away  his  broth- 
er's fortune  and  his  own;  and  at  the  age  of 
thirty-five  Irving  went  up  to  London  to  com- 
mence life  anew. 

It  seems  as  if  the  success  of  every  man  is  in 
part  the  transcript  of  the  same  story  that  Gen- 
ius has  less  need  of  opportunity  than  adversity. 

"That  he  that  creeps  from  cradle  on  to  grave, 
Unskilled  save  in  the  velvet  course  of  fortune, 
Hath  missed  the  discipline  of  noble  hearts." 

In  this  fifteen  years  of  wandering  by  land 
and  sea,  this  general  study  of  human  nature  in 
every  phase  of  life,  we  find  a  good  capital  and 
rich  experience  for  the  coming  essayist.     Add 

155 


this  to  a  fine  classical  education  and  a  still  finer 
course  of  reading  from  the  English  authors  of 
the  Elizabethan  and  Augustan  periods,  under 
the  guidance  of  his  brothers,  all  of  whom  had  a 
taste  for  literature,  and  we  have  one  side  of  the 
equation  of  Washington  Irving's  life.  The 
question  now  is,  What  is  he  equal  to,  what  can 
he  do?  The  study  and  discipline  of  every 
young  man  find  expression  in  the  plain  alge- 
braic symbols  x  x  y — unknown  quantities  in  the 
unworked  problem  of  life.  Mere  education 
may  be  furnished  by  teacher,  parent,  or  guar- 
dian, or  it  may  be  acquired  by  the  patience  and 
perseverance  of  a  youth  like  Elihu  Burritt,  who 
learns  eighty  languages  at  the  forge,  but  the  re- 
sult rests  alone  in  the  will  and  manhood  of  the 
individual;  and  it  was  this  which  supported 
Irving  when  he  wandered  almost  penniless 
through  the  streets  of  London,  and  in  the  dark- 
est hour  of  adversity,  when  urged  by  his  broth- 
ers and  his  old  friend,  Commodore  Decatur,  to 
come  home  and  accept  the  first  clerkship  of  the 
navy  at  a  salary  of  $2400  a  year,  led  him  to  re- 
ply, "I  am  determined  not  to  return  until  I 
have  sent  some  writings  before  me  that  shall 
make  me  return  to  the  smiles  rather  than  skulk 
back  to  the  pity  of  my  friends." 

It  was  this  faith  in  himself  which  published 
the  first  volume  of  the  "Sketch  Book"  at  his 

156 


own  expense  when  declined  by  the  London 
publishers, — the  reception  of  which  in  Britain, 
France,  and  Germany  silently  answered  the 
standing  sneer  of  the  English  critic, "  Who  reads 
an  American  book?" 

The  following  season,  happy  in  his  success, 
we  find  him  in  Paris  writing"  Bracebridge  Hall," 
and  launching  his  brother  Peter  in  a  steam- 
boat enterprise  with  a  rashness  worthy  of  Colo- 
nel Sellers  in  the  "Gilded  Age"  of  Mark  Twain. 
We  next  see  him  at  Ley  den,  Amsterdam, 
Frankfort,  and  Heidelburg,  visiting  the  castles 
and  ruins  along  the  Rhine;  then  to  Strasburg 
and  through  the  Black  Forest  to  the  upper 
waters  of  the  Danube.  On  his  way  to  Munich 
and  Vienna,  he  visits  the  battlefield  of  Blen- 
heim; then  through  Moravia  and  Bohemia  to 
Dresden,  where  he  remains  six  months  tossed 
about,  as  he  expresses  it,  on  the  stream  of  so- 
ciety; then  through  the  Hartz  Mountains,  to 
Paris,  where  he  remains  one  year  and  writes 
the  "Tales  of  a  Traveller."  On  his  return  from 
London  he  makes  an  excursion  through  Orleans 
and  the  centre  of  France  to  Madrid,  where,  in 
the  midst  of  books  and  manuscripts,  he  works 
fourteen  hours  a  day  for  ten  months  on  the 
"History  of  Columbus." 

We  next  see  him  on  his  way  through  La 
Mancha  and  the  desolate  mountains  of  the 

157 


Morenas,  well  known  today  through  the  illus- 
trations of  Dore,  and  rounds  out  the  year  in 
Spain  with  an  Oriental  dream  of  ten  weeks  in 
the  palace  of  the  Alhambra.  Diedrich  Knick- 
erbocker in  the  romantic  land  of  Cervantes, 
with  a  sovereignty  as  absolute  as  Sancho  Pan- 
za's  firmly  established  on  the  throne  of  Boab- 
dil! 

But  an  appointment  from  President  Jackson 
breaks  the  enchantment,  and  he  repairs  to 
London  as  Secretary  of  the  American  Legation. 
We  see  him  at  Oxford  University  receiving  a  de- 
gree of  LL.D.,  almost  overwhelmed  by  the  ac- 
clamations of  the  students  and  cries  of  Ichabod 
Crane,  Rip  Van  Winkle,  Diedrich  Knicker- 
bocker, and  Geoffrey  Crayon.  We  find  him  at 
Newstead  Abbey,  occupying  Lord  Byron's 
room  by  way  of  inspiration,  breathing  in  as  it 
were  the  very  oxygen  of  poetry  among  the  sur- 
viving oaks  of  Sherwood  Forest.  We  see  him 
travelling  with  Martin  Van  Buren,  on  a  Christ- 
mas holiday,  through  England;  and  after 
seventeen  years  of  absence  he  returns  to  his 
native  country,  the  acknowledged  pioneer  of 
American  literature,  and,  like  him  whose  name 
he  honored,  "first  in  the  hearts  of  his  country- 
men." 

At  the  solicitation  of  his  friends,  he  receives 
a  public  banquet  in  his  native  city,  presided 

158 


over  by  Chancellor  Kent,  pronounced  by 
Charles  King,  President  of  Columbia  College, 
— the  most  successful  dinner  ever  given  in  the 
United  States. 

During  the  summer  he  visits  the  Catskill 
Mountains,  and  the  White  Mountains,  a  sec- 
tion abounding  with  stories  that  never  reach 
the  dignity  of  a  legend.  We  see  him  on  his 
"Tour  of  the  Prairies"  through  Ohio  to  the 
banks  of  the  Mississippi  and  the  Missouri. 

In  1855  he  purchases  ten  acres  of  land  two 
miles  south  of  Tarrytown,  and  the  Wolfert 
Roost  of  old  Jacob  Van  Tassel  is  transformed 
into  the  Sunnyside  of  Washington  Irving.  It 
seems  strange  that  the  old  family  device, 
"Flourishing  in  sun  and  shade,"  should  be  hap- 
pily abbreviated  here  in  Sunnyside,  and  the 
three  holly  leaves  given  as  a  coat  of  arms  to  his 
warlike  ancestor,  William  de  Irwin,  by  Robert 
Bruce  on  the  field  of  Bannockburn,  should, 
after  the  lapse  of  five  hundred  years,  find  poetic 
association  in  the  ivy  that  twines  about  the 
porch  of  his  cottage,  brought  from  the  home  of 
the  minstrel,  who  has  woven  the  stern  history 
of  Scotland  with  the  flowers  of  poesy — fromAb- 
bottsford,  the  land  of  his  fathers,  transplanted 
by  Mrs.  Ren  wick,  the  "Blued-eyed  Lassie"  of 
Robert  Burns;  and  stranger  still  that  this  wan- 
derer of  the  family  should  associate  this  device 

159 


with  a  real  family  shield  or  shelter,  the  only 
device  of  our  broad  land — the  American  home 
— and  gather  under  his  own  roof  his  brother 
and  sister. 

Busy  and  happy  in  the  development  of  his 
plans,  he  declines  the  office  of  mayor  of  the 
city  of  New  York,  and  also  the  post  of  Secre- 
tary of  the  Navy  in  the  Cabinet  of  Martin  Van 
Buren.  Two  years  later,  urged  by  his  friends 
and  a  personal  letter  of  Daniel  Webster,  he  ac- 
cepts the  appointment  of  minister  to  Spain. 
He  spends  fours  year  at  Madrid  in  the  midst  of 
revolution  and  insurrection;  is  summoned  to 
London  to  assist  in  the  settlement  of  the  Or- 
egon claims;  returns  to  Sunnyside,  builds  a 
new  tower  to  the  cottage,  and  recommences  the 
"Life  of  Washington. "  He  is  now  seventy 
years  of  age,  but  we  find  him  on  his  old  familiar 
trips  to  Baltimore  and  in  the  library  of  Wash- 
ington, looking  up  material  for  his  history; 
for  it  was  characteristic  of  the  man,  even  to  the 
close  of  his  life,  whatever  he  did  to  do  it  ac- 
curately and   well. 

He  spends  a  portion  of  the  following  summer 
at  Saratoga  and  Niagara,  and  his  trip  through 
the  lakes  calls  up  his  first  visit  to  the  St.  Law- 
rence and  the  memories  of  his  early  life.  A 
letter  written  at  this  time  to  a  niece  in  Paris 
shows   the   wonderful   changes  of  fifty  years, 

160 


presenting  a  contrast  almost  as  effective  and  dra- 
matic as  the  long  absence  of  his  sleeping  hero. 
It  seemed  necessary  and  fitting  for  the  travel- 
ler through  many  lands  to  come  back  again  to 
this  point  of  his  early  wandering  in  order  to 
complete  the  cycle  of  his  life.  "One  of  the 
most  interesting  circumstances  of  my  tour,"  he 
writes,  "was  the  sojourn  of  a  day  at  Odgens- 
burg.  I  had  not  been  there  since  I  visited  it 
in  1803,  when  I  was  but  twenty  years  of  age. 
All  the  country  then  was  a  wilderness.  We 
floated  down  the  Black  River  in  a  scow;  we 
toiled  through  forests  in  wagons  drawn  by 
oxen;  we  slept  in  hunters'  cabins,  and  were 
once  four-and-twenty  hours  without  food. 
Well,  here  I  was  again  after  a  lapse  of  fifty 
years.  I  found  a  populous  city  occupying 
both  banks  of  the  Oswegatchie,  connected  by 
bridges.  It  was  the  Ogdensburg  of  which  a 
village  plot  had  been  planned  at  the  time  of  our 
visits.  I  sought  the  old  French  fort  where  we 
had  been  quartered:  not  a  trace  of  it  was  left. 
I  sat  under  a  tree  on  the  site  and  looked  round 
upon  what  I  had  known  as  a  wilderness,  now 
teeming  with  life,  crowded  with  habitations. 
I  walked  to  the  point  where  I  used  to  launch 
forth  in  a  canoe  with  the  daughters  of  Mr. 
Ogden  and  Mr.  Hoffman.  It  was  now  a  bus- 
tling landing-place  for  steamers.     There  were 

161 


still  some  rocks  where  I  used  to  sit  of  an  even- 
ing and  accompany  with  my  flute  one  of  the 
ladies  who  sang.  I  sat  for  a  long  time  sum- 
moning recollections  of  by-gone  days  and  of 
the  happy  beings  by  whom  I  was  then  sur- 
rounded. All  had  passed  away!  All  were 
dead  and  gone!  Of  that  young  and  joyous 
party  I  was  the  sole  survivor.  They  had  all 
lived  quietly  at  home,  out  of  the  reach  of  mis- 
echance,  yet  had  gone  down  to  their  graves,  while 
I,  who  had  been  wandering  about  the  world, 
exposed  to  all  hazards  by  sea  and  land,  was  yet 
alive.  I  have  often,  in  my  shifting  about  the 
world,  come  upon  the  traces  of  former  exis- 
tence, but  I  do  not  think  anything  has  made  a 
stronger  impression  upon  me  than  this  my 
second  visit  to  the  banks  of  the  Oswegatchie." 
To  come  back  again  after  the  lapse  of  a  cen- 
tury to  the  memory  and  traces  of  his  early  life 
seems  indeed  like  the  fulfilment  of  Tennyson's 
dream  in  the  "Sleeping  Beauty,"  and  we  won- 
der if  the  retrospect  from  this  lone  standpoint 
of  three  score  years  and  ten  fulfilled  the  dreams 
of  the  youth  of  twenty.  Perhaps  so!  for  it 
was  the  good  fortune  of  Irving  to  realize  his 
visions,  and  in  this  particular  he  stands  alone 
in  the  field  of  letters.  Unlike  the  most  of  us, 
his  "castles  in  Spain"  were  of  genuine  marble, 
and  he  lived  to  walk  beneath  their  turrets  and 

162 


to  know  the  richness  of  his  inheritance.  On 
one  of  his  last  visits  to  London  he  was  domiciled 
with  a  friend  in  a  cloister  of  Westminster  Ab- 
bey, and  in  one  of  his  midnight  reveries  he 
writes  to  his  sister:  "How  strange  it  seems  to 
me  that  I  should  thus  be  nestled  quietly  in  the 
very  heart  of  the  old  pile  that  used  to  be  the 
scene  of  my  half-romantic,  half-meditative 
haunts.  It  is  like  my  sojourn  in  the  halls  of 
the  Alhambra.  Am  I  always  to  have  my 
dreams  turned  into  realities?" 

Singularly  enough,  even  Sunnyside  itself  is 
fore-shadowed  in  his  "Legend  of  Sleepy  Hol- 
low," written  in  his  thirty-sixth  year,  and  the 
reader  of  the  "Sketch  Book"  will  remember  his 
reference,  near  the  beginning  of  the  essay,  to  a 
little  valley  near  Tarrytown,  one  of  the  quiet- 
est places  in  the  whole  world;  and  he  says, 
"If  ever  I  should  wish  for  a  retreat  whither  I 
might  steal  from  the  world  and  its  distractions 
and  dream  quietly  away  the  remnant  of  a 
troubled  life,  I  know  of  none  more  promising 
than  this  little  valley."  Twenty-three  years 
afterward  he  writes  to  his  brother  from  Spain: 
"I  hope  some  day  or  other  to  sleep  my  last 
sleep  in  this  favorite  resort  of  my  boyhood;" 
and  when  the  long  procession  wound  its  way 
from  Sunnyside  through  quiet  Irvingtou  and 
Tarrytown  among  scenes  which  had  found  new 

1G3 


charm  in  Irving's  life,  across  the  old  bridge 
draped  with  mourning,  past  the  Dutch  church 
with  its  hallowed  memories  of  two  hundred 
years,  to  the  peaceful  valley  of  Sleepy  Hollow, 
it  seemed  not  so  much  a  mourning  procession  as 
a  poetic  pilgrimage — as  if  his  dreams  were 
realized  in  his  last  sleep ;  as  if  there  were  a  kin- 
dred sympathy  in  the  words  "dust  to  dust," 
and  that  the  land  he  had  filled  with  his  legends 
was  only  receiving  him  to  his  own.  It  was  one 
of  those  warm  November  days  which  seem  to 
belong  to  the  Hudson  Valley,  as  mild  and  gen- 
tle as  the  spring-time,  and  the  broad  river, 
every  point  of  which  is  punctuated  with  ex- 
clamations of  beauty,  lay  tranquil  as  the  heart 
of  the  gentle  writer,  as  if  it,  too,  missed  a  friend 
and  companion ;  for 

"They  do  not  err 
Who  say  that  when  a  poet  dies 

Mute  Nature  mourns   her  worshiper 
And  celebrates  his  obsequies." 


164 


